


Thirty Days of Hell

by Sarageek16



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Brief Scott McCall/OCs, But Mostly Two Oblivious Adorable Idiots in Love, But Weirder, Curses, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Multi, slight dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarageek16/pseuds/Sarageek16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stiles, sweetheart, I know you're angry with me right now, but I'm a good trickster: I wouldn't give you anything you couldn't handle. You needed to know how it felt to have someone else manipulating your love life--Derek's just an asshole. Just give it time, yes? And don't forget to leave a message at the tone!”</p><p>Derek left a message, alright. Stiles' ears were still burning. He didn't even know someone could swear like that.</p><p>Or: The time Derek and Stiles pissed off a trickster and got stuck doing the thirty day OTP challenge. Hilarity ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty Days of Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably be adding more to this later, blubbering about how much fun I had writing this and working with my superb artist but right now I'm exhausted :) and so, I shall only say: 
> 
> Tumblr: eatwritesleepme.livejournal.com
> 
> Fantastic art: http://qafmaniac.livejournal.com/235992.html and http://qafmaniac.dreamwidth.org/304579.html
> 
> Thanks for reading, and happy Sterek week!

 

 

 

[ ](http://qafmaniac.livejournal.com/235992.html)

* * *

 

Nowadays there are very few certainties in Stiles life—you know, what with the whole werewolf/hunters/kanima thing and all that—but there are three things that he can always, absolutely be sure of:  
  
  
1) Any time his father sneaks a food that he's not supposed to have, there will always be a stain. _Always.  
  
  
_ 2) Jackson Whittemore is an asshole.  
  
  
And finally, 3) He will always be Scott's best and greatest friend. Seriously. He should get an award for the sheer amount of bullshit that he'd put up with in the past year or so. Maybe even a _plaque_ or something: _Given To Stiles Stilinski for Sheer Awesome Best Friendliness._

 

And now, he's going to be helping his best friend out in a huge way. For the last week or so, Scott has been lying around Stiles' house agonizing about whether he should text Allison or not, if he and Allison were ever going to get back together, whether Allison was with another guy--Allison, Allison, _Allison._

 

Oh _sure,_ he'd talked about turning a new leaf and discovering himself and all that. But that resolve? It had crumbled to dust in less than three days.

 

So Stiles, for completely non-selfish reasons, decided to give Scott something else to focus on for a while. Just until he and Allison inevitably get back together.

 

This first girl that he found, Lana, had been kind of cute. They'd run into each other at the grocery store: she'd snorted when she'd laughed, and Stiles had snatched Scott and practically _shoved_ him over to her. For a while it was all good.

 

And then, five days later, Stiles had walked up to Scott's house just in time to see her running down the steps in tears. Scott had stood helplessly in the doorway, watching as she jumped into her car and tore down the street.

 

“What happened?” he asked Scott.

 

“She...she was wearing this perfume. It was _her_ perfume, Stiles, and I just--” Scott trailed off helplessly.

 

Stifling a sigh, Stiles had patted him on the shoulder. “That's alright, buddy. Hey, you want some pizza? I could eat pizza.”  
  
Megan was next. Now _she_ was kind of gorgeous: dark skin, wild hair and a bright smile. This time it was week and three days before Scott presented the mangled remains of his bicycle, looking sorrowful.

 

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” said Scott. “She ran over my bike, Stiles. _Twice._ ”

 

“It'll get better,” said Stiles. “Want some pizza? I just put one in the oven...”  
  
Four girls and four pizzas later, Stiles is hoping that the seventh time's the charm.

 

Stiles slurps at his third smoothie in the busy food court, looking over his laptop at the options the new hour has brought him. There's blondes, brunettes, heel wearers and Converse scuffers, girls who wear make up and ones who go au naturale. So many choices and five hours here in this plastic seat, and Stiles hasn't found a single girl who looks like she might fit the bill.

 

It's not too bad, though. This whole people-watching thing is kind of fun. Two twelve year old girls got into a slap fight just ten feet away from him. There was another couple with this toddler who kept on shouting curse words in a Jack Sparrow accent and wouldn't be shushed, no matter how much his parents begged. Stiles had even been slapped on the butt. Granted, it had been an old lady named Betty, but _still._ He's decided that the mall is kind of awesome.

 

Full of drama or not, though, the place is failing him. He still hasn't found a girl. Stiles has decided to look for a specific type rather than simply picking a random one. He isn't even being all that picky: he just wants a nice, normal one. Blonde, preferably. She can't be tall: Allison is 5'8''.  She can't be so short that Scott has to stoop to kiss her, though, 'cause that's fun for no one. Blue eyes, or even green will work, with clumsy limbs, not graceful, catlike things.

 

...Okay, so maybe he's being a bit picky. But seriously, this girl has to be perfect.Stiles is getting sick of pizza and wistful sighs. And if he has to listen to _'When I Was Your Man'_ one more time, someone is going to die.

 

But he's doing this for Scott. Really.

 

He's thinking about getting another smoothie when she slides into the seat in front of him. Stiles stares.

 

He can't help it, really: it's like this girl has literally walked out of his head. Blonde, pretty, wearing jeans and a band tee with silver hoops hanging from her ears and a tattoo of a rabbit on her wrist. Her eyes are a sparkling blue- green and when she leans forward, her necklace swings.

 

“So here's the deal,” she says, and she even _sounds_ completely different from Allison. Her voice is lighter, more mischievous. “I've been watching you for the past hour and you've been doing nothing but eying girls like they're a particularly interesting science experiment. You don't look like a creeper—you're way too baby faced for that—but who knows? You might be some kind of serial killer.”

 

Stiles stares, and stares, and stares. For the first time in months, he's literally speechless. “What?” he finally blurts stupidly.

 

She goes on, like he hasn't spoken. “So I thought I'd make sure that you aren't an escaped convict or something. You know,” her voice becomes a drawl, “For the good of society.” She gestures widely to the food court. There is a couple arguing near the back. A child nearly puce, is screaming for ice cream. The girl smiles ironically at him.

 

It takes longer than it should for Stiles to answer, but when he does it's at least a _little_ intelligence. “No creeperness here,” he assures her. “Just a dude looking to help out a friend.”  
  
“Oh?” she grins, showing teeth with a cute little overbite. Stiles has somehow managed to bag Rapunzel. He is awesome. “Do tell.”  
  
So Stiles whips out his phone and shows a picture of his _best buddy in the world_ who's _totally_ emotionally available and just a little bit lonely so maybe she and him could get together sometime?

 

It's a good picture: Scott, beaming at a golden retriever puppy as it licks his face. Because Stiles is gifted like that.

 

Lexi (because that's her name) grin at him. “All right,” she says finally, “I'll bite.” She grabs his hand, pulls out a marker from seemingly nowhere, and scribbles her number on his skin, the cap between her teeth. When she's finished, she recaps the marker and sticks it down her shirt before standing and leaving with a peace sign.

 

Stiles waits until her ponytail is out of sight before he whoops, throwing a fist in the air.

 

This is gonna be _awesome._

 

 

 

 

 

“No. No, Stiles.”  
  
  
“You didn't let me finish!” Stiles sprints for the door, throwing out his arms.

 

Scott looks like he's going to walk right through him for a moment but he stops, instead. His arms are folded across his chest, looking ready to mutiny. “I don't want to hear it,” he says stubbornly. “Look, I know I've been a little annoying--”  
  
  
“A little?!”

 

“--but I really don't think the answer to the problem. I mean,” he hangs his head. “I made all of those girls cry. _Every single one of them_. And I really can't afford to replace my bike for a third time--”  
  
  
“This one is sane,” Stiles hurries to assure him, his hands outstretched. “Trust me. And she doesn't look like the type to cry, even if you accidentally call her Allison during sex--”  
  
  
Scott cringes. “I really shouldn't have told you that--”

 

“--and that's good, right? Trust me, you'll love her. I mean, just look at her handwriting! Even _that's_ cute!”

 

Scott peers at the numbers on his arm. “Her handwriting _is_ adorable,” he concedes reluctantly.

 

“Exactly! And I promised her you'd call.” Stiles lies through his teeth. Half the time Scott forgets that he's a werewolf with super lie dectectoring, so it's all good. “You don't want to break a promise, do you?”  
  
“I guess not,” Scott sounds a little less unsure. “You said her name was Lexi?”

 

He's reaching for his phone. _Bingo,_ we have a winner. Stiles grits his teeth against the urge to shout with triumph.

 

“If this doesn't work out, dude, you have to promise that you're going to stop trying to set me up with girls.” Scott warns him as he presses the 'Call' button.

 

“Sure,” Stiles agrees easily. He's already plotting to get Danny to introduce them to some of his friends if something goes wrong. Maybe Scott would be into that.

 

Luckily, Scott doesn't notice his sneaky expression.

 

 

 

 

“Hello?” he's on the phone now, face slightly unsure. “Is this Lexi? Yeah? Hi, this is Scott, Stiles' friend.” He pauses, and his face blooms into a smile. “Yeah, I know he's a bit weird sometimes but he's my best friend...”

 

They go out for Chinese and a movie. Scott agonizes about what to wear for a whole hour before Stiles loses patience and threatens to set the whole closet on fire if he doesn't just _pick something._ Scott puts on beat up jeans and a t-shirt—which he's put on three times before—and calls it done.

 

Mrs. McCall is there to see him off, a worried expression on her face. (One of the girls, Bianca, had decided to take a cue from Jazmine Sullivan and bust the windows out of Scott's car. Only, it wasn't really Scott's car, it was his mom’s car.)

 

“Use protection!” Stiles shouts cheerfully after them. Lexi gives him the finger and drives away on her motorcycle, Scott riding bitch.

 

 

 

 

  


Derek hates Lexi on sight. Considering his past dating history, Stiles takes this as an excellent sign and is grinning crazily for the rest of the day. Isaac mopes, because all of Scott's free time is being taken up again and Erica and Boyd are _somewhere,_ so Stiles reluctantly decides to extend an olive branch.

 

It's for this reason that they're sitting in Derek's loft, eating Cheetos and generally being assholes to each other while they play Mario Kart. Derek is gone, probably at work or practicing his Alpha voice. Peter is...well, no one knows where Peter is but as long as he's not here or murdering someone, Stiles is cool.

 

Isaac is _sitting_ on him, the little shit, and they're both frantically trying to complete the final lap when Derek walks in.

 

He looks all frowny, which isn't that much of a surprise. What _is_ a surprise is the fact that Scott is on the elevator with him, looking just as frowny.

 

“...not asking you to like her, I just want you to be at least a _little_ polite. Just a little. She really doesn't like you, man.” Scott's face is all scrunched up, with means that he's either about to go wolf or really has to use the bathroom.  
  
Derek looks like something unpleasant is bouncing under his nose. “I shouldn't have to fake politeness through a conversation,” he says as he walks inside. “And the feeling's mutual.”

 

Stiles is so distracted with the conversation that he's now aware that he's lost the game. Isaac whoops. His head snaps toward the screen. “Shit.”

 

Isaac gets up to dance around the loft.

 

“That's immature,” Stiles says snidely, “and if you think that's how you do the cabbage patch, you're kidding yourself.”

 

“Whatever,” Scott finally grumbles, and flops down on the couch next to Stiles. Isaac is still dancing. Derek has his head stuck in the fridge and when he pulls out there's a Coke in his hand.  
  
  
“Get me one,” Stiles calls.  
  
  
Derek rolls his eyes. “In your dreams. And if I find a single Cheeto in my couch, I'll rip your throat out.”

 

Stiles mocks him when his back is turned. Then he slugs Scott in the shoulder, because the dude is kind of moping. “How was the date?” he asks. Though making out in the woods really isn't what Stiles would call 'dating'.

 

Scott smiles. It isn't the big, goofy grin that he'd give if he was with Allison, but it's something. “Good,” he said. “Really good. Did you know that she's home schooled?”

 

 

 

 

Stiles contentedly listens to his best friend babble. He's such a good person.

 

The night before his junior year starts, Stiles is in his room debating whether green plaid or blue plaid would be better. He's already got his jeans and shirt, but he can't decide...

 

“Stiles,” his dad calls from downstairs, “You've got company!”  
  
“Send them up!” Stiles yells, figuring it's Scott or something. If it were Isaac he'd climb through the window. (He can totally imagine Derek teaching his betas: “ _You're a werewolf now. There's no such thing as doorbells, or privacy._ ”)

 

There's two sharp raps at his bedroom door, sooner than he'd expected. “Come in,” he says distractedly, not looking away from the clothes on the bed. 

 

“I'd go with the green, if I were you.”  
  
His jumps a little and turns.

 

Lexi is leaning against the door frame, her arms folded across her chest and a little smile on her face. Her hair is down, curving around her heart shaped face, and she's wearing black and red. Stiles smiles at her, a bit confused.  
  
  
“Hey,” he says, stepping toward her. “What are you doing here? Not that it's not cool or anything.”

 

“Just stopping in before I hit the road.” She smiles at him. It's a tiny, barely there thing.

 

Stiles blinks. “You’re leaving?”  
  
  
“I was really just breezing through town the day we met. Thought I'd check out the mall,” she tilts her head. “But then I met you and Scott, and I figured I'd stick around for a bit.”

 

“Oh.” Stiles doesn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. He _really_ hadn't been looking forward to a Lexi-Scott-Allison love triangle. But does Scott know?

 

He tries not to think about the potential fall-out of this he doesn't.

 

“Uh—you're leaving with your parents?”  
  
  
“Don't have any,” she says easily. Shit. Scott must've mentioned that while Stiles was zoned out. He knows he hates it when people blithely talk about his mom.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says genuinely.

 

“Oh don't be,” she waves a hand, utterly blasé. “They’re useless anyway. But we're not talking about me, Stiles. We're talking about you.”  
  
  
“Me?”

Her gaze sharpens. “Yes. You. Stiles Stilinski.” The name rolls around in her mouth like a sweet, and Stiles flushes for no particular reason. She starts to walk closer.  
  
  
“Uh,” he clears his throat, chest suddenly tight. “Um. If this is a seduction attempt, you should know that Scott and I have a strict policy of bros against...young ladies. Not that it's upheld all the time, but that's another story. So. Um. Thanks but no thanks?”  
  
  
Lexi laughs. “I'm not going to kiss you, silly. I just want to give you something before I go. A little taste of your own medicine, you could say.” She's smiling, but it doesn't meet her eyes as she settles two hands on either side of his head. Her hands are cold, and her nails are painted blue and black. Stiles can see the rabbit on her wrist out of the corner of his eye.

 

“That doesn't sound too good.” Stiles chuckles nervously, trying to back up a little, but suddenly Lexi's got an iron grip on his head.

 

“It won't be, if you struggle too much. But don't worry.” Her smile is sharp. “Everything should be fine if you both just go with it.”  
  
  
“Just go with what—ow!” Stiles winces, smacking a hand to his head and groaning as something like the _worst migraine ever_ shoots through his head. It's over in a second, which makes it all the more confusing.

 

Lexi steps back with a beautific smile on her face.  
  
  
“There,” she says, sounding satisfied.

 

“What the hell was that?” Stiles is still rubbing his head.

 

“Aw, nothing.” Lexi waves a hand. “All part of the process. You'll call me when you need me, yeah? I do like you, Stiles, even if you do require my skills.”

 

“I actually have no idea what you're talking about.”

 

“Oh, don't worry dear: you will soon enough. Say hi to Derek for me, will you?”

 

“Okay,” Stiles says, and bemusedly watches as the girl waves and walks away.

 

When he looks down at his arm, Lexi's number is scrawled there in fresh purple marker.

 

 

 

 

 

The first day of August dawns bright and kind of gorgeous, with birds twittering outside of Stiles window and his alarm screaming near his ear. He groans muzzily and reaches out to clumsily turn it off. His fumbling fingers manage to completely shove it off instead. The alarm hits the ground with a clatter, still wailing.

 

Stiles lays back, counts to ten, then sits up to retrieve it and his wrist is pulled back. He tugs again, thinking it's caught in the sheets. When it doesn't come, he turns with irritation--

 

And stops cold.

 

Derek Hale is sleeping in his bed.

 

Derek Hale is sleeping in his bed with a fuzzy red handcuff around his wrist.

 

Derek Hale is in Stiles' _bed,_ with a _fuzzy red handcuff_ around his wrist, which is connected to _Stiles'_ wrist. There is a single one centimeter link on the chain.

 

Stiles doesn't have a hangover. The only way that he would have ended up like _this_ would have been if he were drunk, and he hasn't been drunk since the night Lydia tore his heart to strips. Which was like, months ago. Maybe he had a late drunkeness thing? But no, that's ridiculous because Derek have had to be drunk too and werewolves don't get drunk they're too badass to get drunk holy God he's panicking and he needs to stop--

 

Stiles take a huge, calming breath and holds it in, yoga style. He slowly lets it out through his nose.

 

And then he slaps Derek in the face.

 

“Wake up,” he snaps, because even if Derek _does_ look like a Disney prince sleeping there, all stubbly and stuff, this is Stiles' bed. This is Stiles' _room._ This is not flying with him at all.

 

Derek jerks awake immediately, which is weird since he barely twitched through the alarm. “What the hell is that noise?” he demands, voice deep and eyes muzzy. Then his eyes clear and glow red. “Stiles? What the--” he jerks his wrist back, which, of course, drags Stiles with him so Stiles ends up nearly sprawled across his lap. The so-called alpha yelps at this and skitters away as far as he can.

 

Derek ends up on the edge of the bed with Stiles still on his face, their wrists outstretched to stay connected.

 

“What is this?” Derek's voice is a low growl now. “Stiles, I swear to god if this is some kind of prank I'm going to--”

 

“You're going to what?” Stiles snaps, sitting up on his knees with some difficulty. It's six in the morning and he's attached to a grumpy werewolf and he is _not a happy camper_. “Attack me with that horrible case of bedhead that you're sporting? Why in the hell would I want to do something like this?”

 

“Who knows how your mind works?” Derek retorts, tugging at their binding again. Stiles' arm is yanked forward with the movement, and he irritably snatches it back.

 

“Stop that!” he has to raise his voice over the noise of the alarm.

 

 

“I'm calling Isaac,” Derek decided, reaching for pockets that aren't there. He's in a black undershirt and _plaid_ pajama bottoms of all things, and if this were any other situation Stiles would be laughing to the point of tears. The mighty alpha wearing Hanes.

 

Okay, yeah, it's still kind of funny.

  
“Get that smirk off your face and turn off the alarm,” Derek snarls. His eyes are still bright red, but that's probably because he wants them to be.

 

“You're not the boss of me,” Stiles says defiantly. “This is _my_ room.”

Derek bares his teeth and okay, maybe he's pissed enough that he's not consciously doing the red eye thing because there's definitely a hint of fang there. So Stiles huffs and moves to the edge of the bed—Derek moving with him—and grabs the alarm with his non-shackled arm. With a few presses of buttons, there's blissful silence.

 

Stiles breaks it, of course. “Can't you just--” he makes a sharp yanking motion, trying to pantomime snapping the chain link.

 

Derek looks totally unimpressed. “If you want a broken wrist, sure. These are real metal, Stiles.” he lifts wrist to emphasize his point. Their fingers are brushing, but they're studiously ignoring that.

  
Stiles looks down at his own cuff, mind working furiously. They could get a saw—but how can that work without his dad coming to find out what all the noise was? Derek could break his thumb and slip out, like an action hero but yeah, no, that's not going to work because the cuff's just too tight.

 

“There's no lock to pick.” Derek is inspecting his own cuff, too. Even with the wild bedhead and the fuzzy red of the handcuff against his skin, he still looks like a GQ model. Life is freaking unfair. “We could try a saw--”

“But it'd make too much noise, I know. Maybe a hand saw?”

Derek opens his mouth to reply when suddenly, his head snaps up. “The Sheriff,” he spits out instead.

 

“Shit,” Stiles says. He dives back into bed, pulling the sheets up and over his wrist. Derek hides along the edge just before there's two raps at the door. It swings open.

 

“Time to get up, kid.” His dad says.

 

Stiles groans theatrically and makes a big show of stretching with the one arm he has. “I'm up, I'm up.” he mumbles. He can practically _feel_ Derek rolling his eyes as he turns to face his dad with drooping eyelids. “Do I have to go to school? I hear homeschooling's a thing.”

The Sheriff smirks at him. “Not on your life. But hey: one more year and then you're done.”

“And off to _college._ ” Stiles groans again. “Go away. I want to mope.”

“And get ready for school.”

“Right. That.” Stiles pouts at him until he shuts the door again. He counts three seconds before Derek sits up.

  
“He's going back downstairs. We need to figure out what we're going to do about this _now_.”

“Fine. I do actually have to get ready for school, so you're going to suck it up and talk to Isaac and Scott while I get ready.”

 

(Un)surprisingly, it takes more effort than it really should for them to get across the room to Stiles' desk where his phone is charging. Derek looks sourer than a Lemon Head as Stiles searches his recent calls one handed. Operating a sensitive touch pad like that is a new kind of hell, but he finally manages to set up a three way call between him, Isaac and Scott. He puts the phone on speaker, hands it to Derek and heads to the bathroom.

 

Derek has to redial three times before Isaac picks up the phone, voice muzzy. “Wha?” he asks, sounding irritable.

 

“Get up,” Derek snarls. Stiles spits toothpaste into the sink, smirking as he pictures the beta snapping to attention.

 

“I'm up, I'm up, Jesus. What's up, Derek?”

“Don't you 'what's up' me,” Derek says, sounding alarmingly like a forty year old woman. “Why the hell am I handcuffed to Stiles Stilinski?”

There is a very long pause. “What.”

Scott chooses to call back then, which saves the trouble of explaining twice.

 

When both of those assholes are done laughing, Scott chortles, “Seriously though, guys. We had nothing to do with this. Whoever did was a total genius though.”

Stiles is about to say something very unkind—he nearly brained himself while trying to pull up a pair of skinny jeans, so he's not feeling very charitable right now—when Derek demands, “Where's your little girlfriend?”

Stiles winces. Scott is a very sensitive person, and with Lexi leaving yesterday this is bound to get ugly.

 

But Scott just sounds impatient when he says, “For the last time, Allison and I aren't together anymore. Besides, she's above--”

“Not her,” Derek interrupts. “The other one. Lexi.”

“Who's Lexi?” Scott sounds genuinely puzzled.

 

“Yeah,” Isaac chimes in. “Whoever she is, she sounds cool.”

Stiles and Derek exchange a long look.

 

“Meet us at the loft in twenty.” Derek says. He hangs up before either of them can protest. His expression is grimmer than usual, which is saying something. “We're going to get to the bottom of this.”

 

Stiles valiantly refrains from making a Scooby Doo joke.

 

 

 

 

 

They have to sneak out the window, which Stiles isn't even in the mood to talk about. He mournfully thinks of the breakfast pancakes that his dad usually makes him as Derek swears under his breath, climbing across the seats of the Jeep. Stiles gets in after him and shuts the door, throwing his bag down.

  
This is the _worst._

 

It only becomes more terrible when his dad comes out of the house as Stiles is driving down the road, a heartbreaking look of confusion on his face. Stiles silently promises to make it up to him later. That, and punch whoever did this straight in the _mouth._

 

His phone buzzes, suddenly. Derek, naturally, picks it up.

 

“Hey!” Stiles protests, because that could be Sugar or Amelie. Their texts are downright _dirty_ sometimes, and Stiles really can't deal with Derek thinking he's attached to a big pervert on top of everything else. But of course, the wolf ignores this and opens the message.

 

His hand tightens, and suddenly Stiles' phone is in serious danger of becoming a mangled piece of plastic.

 

“Hey!” He yelps, torn between focusing on the road and saving his phone. “Don't you _dare._ That's my third phone in six months and my dad will _kill_ me--”  
  
“Where did you find this girl again?” Derek demands.

 

_“Who?”_

 

“Lexi. If that's even her real name.” His eyes are red again. That is not a good sign.

  
“The mall.” Stiles' hand tightens on the wheel as he turns. “We met at the mall, okay?”

 

“And you just thought it'd be fine to drag her home with you for your best friend? A complete stranger?”

 

“I was desperate! You don't know what it's like, having to eat pizza after pizza--”

  
  
“What are you even talking about?!” Derek explodes.

  
_“I don't know!”_

  
“Pull over,” Derek snaps, and Stiles does just that. If he keeps driving they're going to end up on the news.

 

“Now. Explain.”

 

Derek just growls and half-chucks the phone at him. Stiles goes for a one hand catch, misses, and has to bend over awkwardly to fish the phone from the floor. When he sits up, Derek has his eyes closed. He's pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

“I'm stuck. To a moron.”

  
Stiles bristles. “If you'd _handed_ the phone to me like a normal person--”

 

“Shut up. Read what that says.”

Miraculously, the text is still up on the screen. It's from Lexi, and all it says is:

  
**1\. Holding Hands ;)**

 

Stiles stares and stares and stares.

 

Then he asks the obvious question. “How did she manage to drag you out of your bed, across town, and handcuff you to me without you noticing?”

 

“I don't remember being knocked out. She must have put a spell or a charm on me to keep me unconscious.”

  
Stiles laughs. When Derek doesn't, he goes back to staring.

 

“What, seriously?”

 

Derek ignores him. “She didn't smell like a witch, though, I know it.”

 

“Witches have a smell?”

  
“Maybe a fae then, or a--” his head shoots up. “Lexi. _Loki_.”

  
“The Norse _god_?”

  
“It'd explain the smell,” Derek said darkly. “Shit. _Fuck_.”

 

“I seriously need you to start explaining your through process right now.” Stiles pokes the werewolf.

 

Derek swats at him, scowling. “Stop that. Look, did you do anything morally ambiguous before you met...Lexi?”

 

Stiles thinks back to those seven girls. One of them, Madison, had cried so hard her eyes had been swollen. He'd dropped her off at home and gave her his Hershey's bar. “Um.”

Derek's eyes go all flinty. “What. Did you do.”

 

“Um.”

“Tricksters,” Derek says around a low growl, “Will sometimes exact revenge on people that they feel need retribution. Just desserts, they say.”

“You mean like on Supernatural?” Stiles asks in a tiny voice.

 

Derek glares.

 

“If you kill me,” Stiles reminds him, “you will have drag my dead, stinking carcass everywhere.”

  
  
“I can cut off your hand.”

  
  
“I was hoping you wouldn't think of that.”

 

 

 

 

 

They arrive at the loft in a tense silence. Stiles has tried to call Lexi's number three times but it's always gone straight to voicemail:

 

“Stiles, sweetheart, I know you're angry with me right now, but I'm a _good_ trickster: I wouldn't give you anything you couldn't handle. You needed to know how it felt to have someone else manipulating your love life—and Derek's just an asshole. I wanted him to suffer. Just give it time, yes? And don't forget to leave a message at the tone!”

 

Derek left a message, alright. Stiles' ears were still burning. He didn't even _know_ someone could swear like that.

 

Derek's jaw has to be aching with how hard it's clenched. They get into the elevator with a little old lady. She looks at Stiles (who went to bed in a Green Lantern shirt and couldn't change, for obvious reasons) and then at Derek (who looks like a serial killer) and then at their joined wrists.

 

“Don't worry,” Stiles assures her before she can call the police. “It's all consensual here.”

 

Luckily, it's her stop. The woman skitters out, sending anxious glances over her shoulder all the way.

  
“Awkward.” Stiles mutters.

 

Derek smirks.

 

They arrive at the top floor to the sight of Isaac and Scott in the kitchen, talking over enormous bowls of cereal. They look at the cuffs, look at each other, then burst out laughing. Stiles is pretty sure that Scott has milk coming out of his nose.

 

“Shut up,” Derek growls, which only makes them laugh even harder. Stiles silently vows to do something unpleasant to them in the near future.

 

If takes them a while to stop laughing, but eventually they do.  
  
It's Isaac who suggests, almost tentatively, “Maybe the text was an instruction? I mean,” he gestures to their handcuff, brief humor covering his face. “It _is_ kind of short. Like you're supposed to twist your arm or something and maybe, you know. Hold hands.”

 

Stiles and Derek look at each other dubiously. And then, with a muffled sigh, Derek reaches around and twines their fingers around. Stiles' wrist, which has been strained for the past hour, immediately feels better. Derek's fingers are long and thick, wrapping around his thinner, paler ones easily. His hand is much warmer because hello, werewolf.

 

They wait for a second, but nothing happens. The chains don't disappear or glow or anything.

 

Derek sighs. “This is ridiculous.” He doesn't move his hand, though.

 

Scott and Isaac look unbearably amused before maturity catches up with them. They school their faces.  
  
“This sounds so familiar.” Scott's face scrunches up as he tries to think.

 

“Well try to remember.” Stiles sighs. He's already exhausted and it isn't even seven yet. “In the meantime, we've got to get to school.”

 

“We?” Derek raises an eyebrow.

  
“Yes, _we._ Normally I'd be happy to skip out on school but in case you hadn't noticed, it's the first day. My dad'll kill me if I miss.”

 

“So we're supposed to just walk in there like this.” Derek raises their joined hands.

“Yes,” Stiles says with more bravado than he feels. “We'll just tell them it's for a research project down at the community college or something.”

 

“That's ridiculous, Stiles,” Derek retorts. “What idiot is going to believe that?”

 

 

 

 

 

The idiots at Beacon Hills High, apparently. Still, they're gawked at even after Derek (with much charming smiling and obscene hip cocking) explains the situation to Mrs. Caldwell in home room.

 

“Well,” she stammered, blushing to the roots her bottle blonde hair, “It should be—this situation, that is—fine so long as class isn't, um...” She trails off. The undershirt is showing off Derek's muscles and the ass-clinging blue jeans that he put on didn't help much. (Stiles convinced him not to wear the black ones, citing the fact that he looked like a drug dealer in them).

 

Stiles decides to take pity. “Disruptive,” he prods her helpfully.  
  
She blinks, startled. “Right! Disruptive. So long as you're not disruptive, everything should be fine.”

 

The fact is, though, that Derek _is_ disruptive even without meaning to be. The girls and the guys stare even when he's reading beside Stiles in class, staying very quiet. People that Stiles doesn't even _recognize_ walk up to him under the guise of welcoming him back for the new year. Danny walks into a wall, he's so distracted.

 

Derek, of course, is sucking up all the attention like a sponge. He has this little 'Sexy And I Know It' smirk on his face. It doesn't go away, even when Stiles is repeatedly asked if this is his boyfriend.

 

(Only like, five of the people believe him when he says 'no'. He even gets high fived a couple of times.)

 

The only good part to the day is the fact that Lydia and Allison aren't at school. If Lydia saw Stiles like this, he would literally burst into tears. (He's steadily ignoring the fact that he's seen more than one person take a picture and that he's probably on multiple social networking sites. Denial is a wonderful thing.)

 

Stiles' teeth are nearly on edge when they finally walk into the cafeteria. He nearly breaks a molar when he heads for their usual table and finds a bunch of people that he doesn't even _know_ crowded around Isaac and Scott.

 

“Okay,” he says, turning right back around, “Yeah, no. We're eating somewhere else.”  
  
They end up at Hungry Joe's, Derek with a burger and Stiles with an extra-large curly fry and a soda. They release each other's hands to eat but it's still horribly awkward.

 

“If I ever see her again, I'm killing her.” Derek growls as a movement from Stiles makes him smear ketchup across his face. Stiles silently agrees.

 

They lock fingers again and go back to school.

 

The rest of the afternoon is spent with no real bloodshed. Coach spends, like twenty minutes on the fact that their handcuffs are _red and fuzzy_ and Derek has to completely bullshit his way through a more in-depth explanation, but they're good.

 

They head to the loft after. Stiles texts his dad that he might be staying over at Scott's late and turns off his phone before his dad can tell him that it's a school night.

 

He's doing his homework on the couch, fighting for elbow space while Derek flips channels when he doesn't feel fur around his wrist anymore. He looks down.

 

“They're gone.” he says, delighted. He yanks his hand free of Derek's and wiggles his fingers. Does a few 'Vogue' poses to be absolutely sure. When the cuffs don't come back, he gets up and dances around the room.

 

“You don't know how to do the cabbage patch either,” Isaac tells him snidely. He's smiling a little, though.

 

“Congrats, man.” Scott says. Derek's still staring at his hand, his brow faintly furrowed.

 

“Thanks. I gotta go,” he bounces over to the couch and starts shoving his books into his bag. “My dad's gonna need something good for dinner to forget about this morning.”  
  
He leaves with a skip in his step.

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles wakes up the next morning with a smile on his face. He stretches with a wide yawn, spreading his long limbs to the brink before he settles back with a sigh. His alarm isn't blaring so he's not sure what woke him up, but he's content to drowsily lay still in the dark room.

 

And then the bed shifts, and he's acutely aware of someone breathing next to him.

 

Stiles closes his eyes and counts to three. And then he opens them and turns his head.

 

Sure enough, Derek Hale is knocked out on the bed next to him. He's got a five o'clock shadow going on and his lips are slightly parted. He's not wearing a shirt this time.

 

Stiles slaps him again.

 

He jolts into awareness, opening two blood red eyes that glow in the darkness. The glare only increases when he realizes where he is.

 

“The hell,” he rumbles, eyes fading back to hazel. As if in reply, Stiles' phone trills.

 

They both look over at where it's charging on Stiles' desk. And then Stiles nudges Derek with a foot. “You get it,” he groans. “I can't look.”

  
  
Surprisingly, Derek obeys. Stiles gets an eyeful of shapely ass covered by boxer-briefs as the man rises, padding over to the desk with near-silent steps.

 

Opening his suddenly dry mouth, Stiles asks, “You couldn't put on some pants before you went to bed? You know, just in case?”

  
  
Instead of replying, the wolf reads the message.

 

  
“ **Two: Cuddling**.”

 

As if the words have triggered something in him, Stiles body starts to itch.

  
It's gradual, at first. Like three ants crawling over all of his ticklish spots. He twitches a little at the sensation, reaching to scratch at something that isn't there. “Fuck,” he mutters.

The ants apparently decide that they're attracted to each other, because then the number of crawly sensations double. And then they triple. Stiles, starting to squirm in earnest, looks at Derek.

  
The werewolf looks totally stressed. His jaw is tight again—do werewolves go to dentists? Because he looks like he might need one soon—and his fists are clenched. His eyes are red. That, combined with the bedhead, makes him look a bit like he's just escaped the Crazy House For Hot People or something.  “Just ignore it,” he says tightly.

 

“I can't--” Stiles yelps a little as one of those ants decide to _bite._ The other ones follow its lead, and things start to really hurt bad. His eyes water a little. “Come on, Derek, man, I can't--”

 

“Yes you can,” Derek's claws are out. “We can't let her win, Stiles--”

 

But Stiles is trying not to whimper as he starts to feel those things under his freaking _skin, The Mummy_ style, and he can't—he's going to scream--

 

Derek strides across the room, looking furious, but the minute he puts one knee on the bed the sensation dulls so Stiles reaches for him and practically crawls into his arms, babbling, “Okay, okay, cuddling, we can do that, we can so do that, let's cuddle, I'm a freaking cuddle _bear_ \--”

  
  
And Derek says, “Shut up, Stiles,” and wraps his huge arms around him.

 

The ants disappear immediately. Stiles grips at Derek's arms, getting closer but wanting to run away at the same time because, well, this is _Derek Hale_ we're talking about here.

 

“Well.” Stiles says awkwardly after about two minutes. “This sucks balls.”

 

Derek snorts at his choice of words, but doesn't comment. Stiles sighs again and shifts around, trying to get comfortable. If they're going to be in a sucky situation, the least he can do it try to keep the suffering to a minimum.

  
But cuddling with Derek Hale is like cuddling with a huge, overheated log. Stiles has a shirt and pajama pants on but he can still feel the lines of tension running all the way down that body. A freaking _alligator_ would be more comfortable to snuggle with. (And probably more safe, too.)

 

“Dude,” he says, exasperated. “You need to relax!”

 

“ _Nothing_ about this situation is relaxing _._ ”

 

“I know that, but I'm tired.” Stiles barely manages to keep the whine out of his voice. “I wanna sleep. So _chill._ Think about...I don't know, clouds or something.”

  
  
“Clouds,” Derek says skeptically.

  
  
“Stars. Sheep. Anything, man, just loosen up some.”

  
  
At first, it doesn't seem like Derek's going to listen to him. And then he sighs, long and deep, and gradually he starts to relax into the bed.

 

“Good boy,” Stiles mutters, because he's an asshole. A hand settles on his hip and it's his turn to stiffen as claws slowly slide up his skin. He shivers.

 

“What was that?” Derek asks lazily.

  
  
“Nothing.”

 

“Thought so.” The hand slides away and Derek rearranges them until Stiles' back is pressed to Derek's front and a heavy arm is draped across his waist. Stiles feels a hint of an itch so he tentatively settles a hand on top of the wolf's. Derek nudges a nose into the back of his neck, inhales a little, then releases. He relaxes a bit more.

 

“Gonna kill her.” Derek mutters.

 

“Okay big guy.” Stiles pats him a little. “Go back to sleep now.”

  
  
Derek growls, but they both obey.

 

 

 

 

 

Derek's gone by the time he wakes up, but Stiles feels fine without him. That, he thinks, counts as a win.

 

He dresses, gets breakfast with his dad and heads to school.

 

The masses seem more than a little disappointed to see him without Derek. He tells them that the social experiment is over, shoos them away, and head to his locker to get his books.

 

Lydia Martin walks up while he's pulling out his completed homework. He stares at letters on his textbook until they blur.

  
“So.” She sounds light and unbothered. She's also wearing a new perfume: something flowery. It makes Stiles' nose twitch. “I heard yesterday was bring-your-boyfriend-to-school day.”

  
  
“Ha ha.” Stiles closes his locker and finally looks up.

  
She looks gorgeous, as always. It hurts less than Stiles thought it would as he takes in her wide brown eyes, the strawberry blonde hair that's pulled up into a seemingly simple bun.

 

He even manages to smile. “How was France?”

  
  
“It was,” she waves a dismissive hand. “France. So, a social project.”

  
  
They start to walk down the hallway. Despite the fact that he's kind of getting over his crush on Lydia, he still feels a thrill as she keeps pace in tall blue pumps.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles answers. “Just a trickster. That's all.” he doesn't relay the fact that he slept with a werewolf last night.

 

Scott remedies _that_ for him.

  
“Ugh,” he says loudly, wrinkling his nose as they sit down at their seats. “What did you do, _roll_ in Derek?”

 

Stiles flushes to the tips of his ears.

 

“I hate you,” he mutters as Lydia starts to smirk.

 

“I didn't know you had it in you, Stilinski,” she near-purrs.

 

Luckily, Allison chooses to walk into the classroom. The only seat left is next to Scott, so Lydia switches with her.

 

Stiles looks at her and remembers getting the shit beat out of him by her grandfather while she was upstairs.

 

They lapse into an awkward silence.

 

 

 

  


The next day, Stiles is driving with Scott and Isaac when his phone finally fucking trills.

 

He'd been expecting a werewolf and a text first thing in the morning, so when he got neither an anxious little ball had formed in the pit of his stomach. It was a little placated when Isaac blithely started talking about Derek burning the eggs this morning, but not much.

 

He was twitchy throughout the school day, his knees bouncing nervously. He checked his phone anytime he could, but there was nada. Nothing.

  
So when he finally gets a text he pulls over (to much protest) and whips it out.

 

“ **Three: Gaming/watching a movie.** ” He looks at Scott. “Seriously?”

  
  
“Sounds pretty easy.” Scott shrugs. “Want to swing by the rental place on the way to the loft?”

“You'd better,” Isaac says. “Derek's got, like, three DVDs and two are scratched to hell.”

  
So they swing by, ignoring the fact that a man died in here, and pick up a bunch of Marvel movies.

 

Derek looks at their selection with a raised eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  
  
“Seriously,” Stiles confirms gravely.

  
  
Derek sighs and picks Captain America. Stiles is starting to feel itchy before Derek sits next to him on the couch and puts an arm over his shoulder. The feeling eases instantly.

 

Derek looks at him like he's daring him to say something, so Stiles swallows the smart remark that had jumped to mind.

  
“Aww,” Isaac coos, making mocking kissy faces.

 

“Kiss my ass.” Stiles glowers at him.

 

“Shut up.” Derek mumbles. “Movie's starting.”

  
  
Stiles looks up at him. He looks completely _into_ it in a way that's super hilarious. 'Seriously' my ass, Stiles thinks, and steals the popcorn bowl from Scott.

 

It's not completely horrible.

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles' phone wakes before his alarm with a text from Lexi.

 

**4\. On a Date**

  
Stiles stares at that for a few moments, blinking sleepily. And then he forwards the text to Derek and goes to take a shower.

 

He takes his sweet time, washing his longer-than usual hair and letting the hot water blank his mind. When the water starts to cool down he figures that he's been in long enough and gets out, wrapping a towel around his waist.

 

Teeth brushed and deodorant applied, he goes back into his room to slip on a pair of jeans, a shirt and a plaid over shirt. His phone trills while he's drying his hair.

 

**TheSourestWolf**   
_Shit._

 

**Stiles**

_Pretty much. What do you wanna do?_

There isn't a reply. Stiles sighs, resigning himself to planning something totally random when he gets another message.

**TheSourestWolf**   
_Get Scott to take your Jeep. I'm picking you up from school._

Despite himself, Stiles can't help but be a little curious. And by a little, he means _extremely_ curious. Before he can demand answers, another text comes in.

  
**TheSourestWolf**   
_Stop texting me and go to school._

Stiles rolls his eyes and vows to pester Isaac.

 

 

 

“I'm telling you, I have no idea what he's got planned.” Isaac says, looking impatient over his mac 'n cheese.

Stiles chews a bite of chicken, holding up a finger. Swallows. “Bullshit.”

  
  
“He's telling the truth.” Scott pokes at his own lunch, staring across the cafeteria. Stiles doesn't even have to look to know who he's staring at. He snaps his fingers in front of his so-called best friend's face. “Hey. _Hey._ We're focusing on _my_ crisis right now.”

“It's not like it's a real date.” Scott says, finally looking at him. He frowns. “Unless...you want it to be?”

Stiles squawks, which draws the attention of like, half the cafeteria. He ignores this in favor of staring at Scott. “Have you lost your mind?”

  
  
“It's just,” Scott shrugs, “You guys do look awfully coupley sometimes. With the holding hands--”

  
  
“We were handcuffed together--”

  
  
“--And the cuddling--”

  
  
“--Which was also forced--”

  
  
“And the bickering--”

“He's a bonehead, of course we're going to argue. Stop that,” Stiles snaps when Scott opens his mouth to make another point. “This is horrible, your old girlfriend who you don't remember is horrible, and I hate you both. Lots.”

  
Isaac smirks. “Does this mean we're not invited to the wedding?”

  
  
Stiles doesn't leap across the table to choke him, but it's a near thing.

 

 

 

“Treat my baby right,” Stiles warns as he reluctantly hands over the keys to his Jeep. “She's delicate, okay? Don't go running over trolls and shit.”

  
  
“Okay,” Scott says easily. “You sure you don't want us to wait with you?”

  
  
“Nah.” Stiles waves a hand. “I'm good. I'll just stay in the library or something. Just some homework done, draw dicks on the desks...”

  
  
Isaac snorts. “Mature.” But he slaps him on the shoulder before he gets into the Jeep. Stiles' arm will probably bruise, but it's the thought that counts.

 

Scott still looks a little unsure, but he nods. “Okay. We're headed to my house in case you want to come by later.”

 

Stiles nods and watches them go, not feeling the least bit wistful. Like, at all.

 

He goes to the library, but his stomach is turning too much for him to concentrate on any kind of work. Instead, he pulls out his phone and starts playing the newest Angry Birds game.

 

He doesn't even know why he's nervous. Like Isaac said, it's not even a real date. Just something that some chick is forcing them to do because they're both assholes: Stiles, because of all of those girls that he set up with his best friend when he _knew_ Scott would break their hearts; Derek because...well, he's Derek.

 

Anyway, it's not real. Nothing be anxious about.

 

Stiles tries to tell this to the man-eating moths in his stomach.

 

(They don't listen.)

 

Twenty minutes in the library becomes thirty, and thirty becomes an hour. The library's empty by now, and the librarian, Mrs. Hillard, is sending him impatient looks. Her stuff is waiting next to her.

 

Stiles gets out of his chair, checks out the book that he's been aimlessly flipping through and heads outside.

 

The parking lot is nearly empty. There's a couple making out in a spot where they probably think they can't be seen. A group of seniors are sharing a cigarette. Stiles doesn't get the point of that and he never will, seeing as he'll never pick up a cigarette in his life.

 

He sits on the steps and dials Derek three times. Every single time he gets the same voicemail:

 

“Not here. Leave a message at the tone.”

 

Stiles doesn't leave a message. Instead, he decides to text to express his feelings.

 

 **Stiles  
** _You're an hour late, you asshole_

**Stiles**

_Someone had better be dying or dead_

**Stiles**

_No seriously, is someone dead_

**Stiles**

_Or did you just forget like a BIG ASSHOLE???_

He hates to admit it, but he's actually kind of...disappointed. Yeah, Derek's idea of a date would probably be walking through the woods or something stupid like that, but it would be Stiles' very first _real_ date and he'd been looking forward to--

“Stilinski.”

  
  
Stiles' head jerks up.

 

Somehow, the Camaro managed to silently creep up on him. Derek's standing outside of it, passenger door open with a scowl on his face. “Stop pouting and get in the car.”

  
  
Stiles' heart leaps. And then he remembers that he's been waiting for the past hour and a half. He scrambles up, scowling right back as he hustles toward Derek. “Where _were_ you?”

  
  
“I'll explain when we get there.”

  
  
“But--”

  
  
“Watch your head.”

 

Glowering, Stiles gets into the car, knocking his head in the process.

  
  
“I told you to--”

  
  
“I know, I know.” Stiles flaps at him. Derek rolls his eyes, shuts the door and walks around to get in the driver's seat. They pull away from the school with a squeal of tires and burning rubber.

 

“Need for speed much,” Stiles mutters.

 

“I do feel the need,” Derek replies sagely.

 

While Stiles gapes, Derek turns on the radio and rolls down the windows. Stiles can't talk without yelling now. Normally, he'd call the wolf out on his deliberate scheming, but right now he's still shocked at Derek's blatant geek side.

 

The sun's starting to go down when they pull into front of a small restaurant. Derek gets out and Stiles follows him at a more sedate pace, eying his surroundings. There are a few green bushes in front of the brick building. An old sign had _Angelo's_ written in cursive.

  
When they get inside, the older woman who greets them is typing at an ancient computer. She has a round, sweet face and a name tag that says 'Theresa'. She tells them she'll be with them in a moment.

 

While they wait, Stiles looks around. The restaurant is dimly lit, with wooden chairs and a warm, homey smell in the air. Stiles isn't aware of how tense he is until he slowly starts to relax.

 

“I'm very sorry about the wait,” the woman says, bringing Stiles attention back up front. “That'll be seats for...” she trails off, staring at Derek.

  
Stiles is about to snap something—nice old lady or not, he is getting sick and _tired_ of this happening damn it—when her eyes mist with tears. Which, really, hasn't happened before.

 

“Derek? Derek Hale?”

 

Derek looks uncomfortable. Stiles hasn't seen that expression on his face since...well, never.

 

“Hi Mrs. Marcello,” he practically mumbles.

 

The woman clasps her hands to her generous bosom. “My goodness. My _goodness,_ my baby boy.” She rounds the counter, and suddenly Derek's pulled down and into the aforementioned bosom. Stiles sneakily takes out his cell and snaps a photo. You know, for posterity's sake.

 

“...haven't seen you since you were this high,” she's saying, accent suddenly thick in her voice. “You were all legs and hair and _now_ look at you! A big boy, all grown up and--” she sniffles loudly. “Your mother would be so proud!”

  
  
Derek's looking more and more constipated with every passing second, so Stiles decides to intervene.

 

Then again, he did just wait nearly two hours outside of a place that he despises.

 

...The wolf can suffer.

 

“And is this your date?” Theresa asks, after gushing about Derek's body parts. She walks up to him without hesitation and grabs his chin in her warm hands, turning him from side to side with contemplative noises. Now it's Derek's turn to smirk.

 

“Hmm,” she says, “Isn't he a bit young?”

  
  
Stiles relishes that smirk falling off Derek's face. Now he looks even _more_ uncomfortable. “I'm still in high school,” he informs Theresa, trying to look as young as possible by widening his eyes. It's not until she's frowning a little that he remembers.

 

Kate. Shit.

 

He darts a glance to Derek, who's suddenly looking uber broody. “But enough about me,” he says hurriedly. “I'm _starving_ and it smells so good...”

  
  
“Of course!” Theresa exclaims. All thoughts of age difference are forgotten as she steers them to a cozy little booth, pulling menus out of nowhere and handing them to them. They're old and faded with age, but still neat.

 

Stiles orders Coke and Derek gets some water. Theresa beams at them, nods, and goes to get their drinks.

 

Derek's really quiet. As least, he is until Stiles kicks him. And then he's quiet _with_ bared teeth.

“That's not attractive,” Stiles informs him.

 

Derek just glowers. And then Theresa comes bustling back with their drinks, humming a song under her breath, and he smiles.

 

“Thank you,” he says, practically oozing charm as she sets the glasses down.

 

“You're welcome, love. Are you ready to order yet?” 

  
“Not quite yet, no.”

  
“Well, I'll be back in a few minutes and you can tell me your decision then. Okay Derek and...” she trails off.

 

“Stiles,” Stiles volunteers.

  
  
“Your mother named you Stiles?” her brow furrows.

 

Stiles doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. “It's a nickname,” he explains, not looking at Derek. “My real name is kind of hard to pronounce.”

  
“Oh, I'm _very_ good with names,” Theresa effuses. “What is it?”

 

Stiles considers lying, especially when he looks at Derek and sees the blatantly interested look on his face. But something about Theresa makes him want to be less of an asshole than normal. So he says his name.

  
The woman's features go completely blank before she clears her throat. “Repeat that?”

  
  
Stiles says it three more times. Each time she looks a little more blank.

  
“It's Polish,” he explains, somewhat apologetically. “For my granddad.”

 

“Oh.” Theresa smiles a little. “That's nice, love. As I was saying, I'll be right back when you're ready to order.” she flits off.

  
Stiles studiously looks over his menu. For a moment, it looks like Derek's going to let the matter rest. And then he says, slowly, “So that's your real name.” He sounds endlessly amused. “Huh. If I had a name like that, I'd make a nickname for myself too.”

  
  
Stiles isn't very fond of his given name either, but that doesn't mean some muscle head with fangs is going to bash it. He glares at Derek. “Want to tell me why you were two hours late picking me up?”

  
  
Derek's amusement is gone. “No.”

  
  
“What's the matter big guy?” Stiles cocks his head with faux innocence. “Did you have to bury a dead body or something? Come on. You can tell Stiles.”

 

Theresa comes back to a very hostile table.

 

Stiles doesn't stop glaring as he orders. “I'll take the spaghetti, garlic bread and salad as sides. Please.”

 

Derek orders the tortellini. It's a slightly nervous woman who bustles off to give their order to the chef, giving them odd glances over her shoulder.

 

The food doesn't take very long to come at all, and Stiles barely holds back a groan as he takes his first bite of garlic bread. It's buttery and warm and nearly melts in his mouth and—Christ, he's never bringing his dad here. He'd leave on a stretcher. Even the salad's good, crisp and hearty with dressings on the side. The spaghetti is like sin on a white plate. It's all so good that he almost forgets to be angry. Almost.

 

Derek's food looks good too. If it were Scott sitting across from him, Stiles would have his fork all over his plate already.

 

Then again, if this were Scott, Stiles would be much more comfortable. A little holding hands and spooning between bros is nothing weird, especially since Scott was, like, a total cuddle slut as a kid. Still is, really. It would totally work. However, getting an arrow through the neck from Allison would really kind of put a damper on things.

 

Now isn't the time to think about that though, because apparently scowling at someone while eating in a cozy restaurant doesn't count as a date. There's an itchy feeling in Stiles' body. He honestly couldn't point to a spot if asked, but it's there.

 

Great. The ants from hell are back.

  
For a moment, he's seriously tempted to ignore it. But after last time, Stiles is pretty sure that he'll end up in Derek's lap (or Derek in his—which isn't comical at all) if he lets it go on.

 

So he sucks it up, forks another meatball and says, conversationally, “So. Eat any poor, innocent Bambis today?”

  
  
Derek smiles, all teeth. “No. There was a Thumper though. How about you, Stiles? Knock anyone out with your clumsy flailing?”

 

“Unfortunately no,” Stiles replies. The itchy feeling is hesitating, as if unsure whether or not they're actually talking. Stiles hides a grimace as it returns with a fervor as if deciding, _no, they're not getting along, not really._ He dances in his seat a little and adds quickly, “Did ace a math pretest, though. Lydia's pissed because I beat her score by two points.” He's kind of unsure about mentioning the girl that Derek wanted dead not a few months ago, but he can't take back the words. Derek doesn't seem to react, anyway.

 

“Is Orson still teaching there?” Derek asks. If Stiles isn't mistaken, he'd say the guy looks kind of genuinely interested.

  
  
The teenager snorts. “That fat bastard? Yeah, he's still teaching there. Everyone knows every time he 'steps out' he takes sips out of his flask.”

 

From there, they're actually kind of _talking._ It's weird and there are land mines everywhere—Stiles mentions Harrison and there's this shut-down that Derek's face goes through—but things are only semi-awkward when Theresa comes back to clear their plates and get their dessert orders.

 

Derek passes—of course—but Stiles glances at the menu and his mouth waters at the huge, chocolate cake dominating the left side. He doesn't even look at the description before he points. “That. Now. Please?”

  
Theresa laughs. “Coming right up, love.”

  
  
When she sets the plate in front of Stiles, Derek is checking his phone for something and Stiles is people watching.

 

“An extra large slice, just for you.” she pats his cheek, then winks. “Enough to share, if you want.”

  
Which, no, not happening ever in this life time. Stiles just beams at her until she goes to refill their drinks, then digs into the chocolatey goodness. Flavor explodes in Stiles' mouth—cocoa and frosting and so much _sugar_ that he swears, his toes are buzzing. There's something else there too, but it only brings out the flavor. Stiles moans unashamedly, licking his lips.

 

Derek's face is kind of comical when Stiles looks up.

  
  
“You eat like a golden retriever.” he says.

 

Stiles rewards him with a huge, gushy chocolate smile and a middle finger.

 

He's about halfway through his cake and Derek's texting someone—rude--when Stiles' vision blurs a little.

 

The cake's just that good, he thinks nonsensically as his head starts to feel swimmy. He blinks a lot, staring at the two Dereks who have suddenly appeared in front of him. Goosebumps break out on his arms and he shivers, suddenly cold, and inhales to ask Derek what's going on.

 

Only—he can't. Not really. The gulp of air that he wanted comes out as a wheeze and his hands fly to his throat, the spoon dropping to the plate with a clatter.

 

Derek, because he's a werewolf and stuff, is out of his seat and rounding the table before Stiles even slumps.

 

“Someone call an ambulance!” he shouts, sounding very loud and very far away at the same time. It's the Alpha Voice and Stiles would laugh but every breath hurts and he's all trembly and itchy. It's like a panic attack but not and he remembers this from when he was very young.

 

“Co…conut...aller...gy,” he chokes.

 

Derek's eyes are wide and dark. “Okay,” he says, guiding Stiles to the ground. The carpet makes his skin feel even itchier and Derek lays him flat, pushing his knees up. “Do you have an epinephrine?”

  
  
There are dark spots in front of Stiles' eyes. He can see Theresa hovering, hands pressed to her mouth, the pale ceiling. It's turning over and over again, like Stiles' stomach. He feels like he can feel the earth spinning.

 

Derek slaps him, ignoring Theresa's gasp. “Stiles,” he says sharply.

  
“Book...bag.”

  
Derek leaves, which is really upsetting. Stiles reaches after him but he's a dark shape moving through the growing crowd. Leaving. Stiles' heart rate, which is already racing, sky rockets. He tries to call him back but his mouth tastes funny and he _can't fucking breathe._

 

Theresa takes Derek's place, holding his hand while he gasps like a fish out of water. “I'm so sorry,” she's saying kind of tearfully. “Coconut is my family's secret ingredient for our chocolate cake—didn't you read the description on the menu?”

  
  
No, Stiles didn't, and he's 99.99 percent sure that his dad is going to kill him.

 

Shit. His _father._

 

It's with that horrifying thought that Stiles passes out.

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles wakes up to his father trying to burn a hole in his forehead with his eyes.

 

For a long moment, they just stare at each other. And then Stiles grins wide, showing all of his teeth (with taste like the dust bunnies under his bed. Gross). “Nice meeting you here,” he croaked.

 

“Stiles.” His dad looks tired. 

 

“No, really,” Stiles babbles. “It’s nice that you took time out of your busy, Sheriff-y schedule to come and visit little ol’ me—“

 

“Kid,” his dad says, and something in his tone makes Stiles stop.

 

Before he can say anything else, the doctor, a salt and pepper haired guy with a never ending smile, comes in. He chats with them for a few minutes, verbally marveling over the fact that Stiles has a coconut allergy—it's really, really rare. Finally, when he's done looking over Stiles then explaining that they'll have to stick around for the rest of the night, just in case, Dr. Neil leaves, nodding to the Sheriff and Stiles with a smile.

 

The room fades back into awkwardness.

 

Finally, John clears his throat. “So you and Derek...are, uh,” he falters.

 

“We're not,” Stiles says quickly.

 

The look that he gets from his dad is even more disappointed then the last one. And that's saying something. “Really?” he retorts. “Because Hale was saying something different while you were out.”

 

Stiles' mind, even slightly drugged, snaps to his dad's meaning immediately. “He said we were dating,” he realizes aloud, kind of stunned. 

 

“The cat's outta the bag,” the Sheriff says, folding his arms. Stiles is internally panicking, wondering what the hell the wolf told his dad—seriously, without so much as a word of _warning,_ even--

 

But, he realizes, this is kind of perfect.

 

There's no telling how long they're going to be stuck like this. Maybe Lexi'll get bored soon. Maybe they'll be here fifty years from now, forced to lock pinkies and sing 'Kumbaya' for no particular reason. (Stiles shudders at the thought.)

 

The point is, he's going to have to suck it up and put on his best acting skills. Because the way his dad is looking at him right now, all squinty eyed and suspicious, is not good.

  
“Just why do you sound so surprised?”

 

“I just thought--” Stiles internally flails-- “I didn't think we were calling it that. Dating.”

 

They stare at each other, John's eyes going from merely 'narrow' to slits. Stiles tries really, really hard not to shove his own fist into his mouth.

 

He did not just imply that he was doing a 'friends with benefits' thing with Derek Hale. Except for the part where he _did._

 

“Just what is _'it'_?”

 

“I didn't mean it like that,” Stiles throws his hands up in front of him, bad guy style. “We're not--”

 

“You are _underage,_ Stiles, and apparently Hale wasn't being as truthful as I thought when he said that you two weren't--”

  
“We're not!” Stiles voice goes up a few decibels, almost cracking, because now he's thinking about—which, _no--_ “It's just hand holding and snark, I swear!”

 

“It had better be,” John huffs, “Or I'm going to be pulling my gun on him at the dinner that I invited him to.”

  
_  
“You what!?”_

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles should be asleep. Really. It's been a long two days of spending the night in the hospital, not-too-awkward dates, and nearly dying over allergy attacks. But when he finally gets home and lays down in bed, he can't so anything but stare at the ceiling for thirty minutes.

 

So he rolls out of bed, walks over to his desk (tripping on a t-shirt on the way, but that was irrelevant) and boots up his laptop. He types in the Google homepage, bites his lip, and types.

 

  1.  _holding hands 2. cuddling 3. on a date_



He hits enter, prepared to wade through the thousands of internet pages in search of something that wasn't totally bullshit. What he wasn't prepared for was his entire screen to go dark purple.

 

NICE TRY, it said in big, curly red font. At the bottom of the screen, a white cartoon rabbit is running around and around.

 

Stiles grits his teeth in frustration, closing the laptop. Of course she wouldn't let him have his research. Why give him some clue as to what he's in for?

 

He doesn't go to bed until hours later. Just when he finally slips into sleep, though, his alarm clock goes off.

 

When he gets downstairs, his dad is reading the paper with his reading glasses on, sipping from his coffee mug. Stiles hits the final stair noisily, prompting him to look up.

 

John raises an eyebrow. “Rough night?”

 

Stiles merely grunts, walking past him to get to the coffee machine. A bunch of creamer and sugar and he's stirring, then pressing it to his lips. It's hot, but good—Stiles resists the urge to groan with happiness, or start hissing adoration at it, Smeagol style.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“Better,” Stiles mumbles. He's not one hundred percent—a little woozy, a lot sleepy--, but he's not near-death.

 

“I hope you thought about our little discussion yesterday.” John's voice is forcibly nonchalant.

 

It was decided that Stiles wouldn't be grounded for seeing Derek. Was John pleased with the fact that Stiles had been 'seeing' a man accused of murder behind his back? No.

 

“But you're getting older now, Stiles,” he'd said, looking at his son with an intensity that made Stiles fidget. (More than usual, anyway.) “You can make your own decisions.”  
  
Stiles wanted to say that he hadn't _decided_ to date Derek, that some trickster decided to teach him a lesson for being an asshole. But that would have opened a can of worms that he wasn't ready to deal with. (See: _Werewolves_.) So he'd only nodded.

 

They'd talked for the rest of the night, that tight, frightened look in the Sheriff's eyes fading a little more with every hour. Finally, he'd left and Stiles had spent the night in a creaky hospital bed.

 

“Wasn't,” Stiles grunts around his coffee, feeling monosyllabic. He starts making himself a big bowl of cereal.

 

“Okay then.” The Sheriff turned a page. “Well, I took the day off today.”  
  
“You didn't have--”  
  
John cuts him off with a look. “Of course I did.”

 

The rest of the morning is spent dozing on the couch, watching old movies with his dad. He settles into  sleep a couple of times.

 

It's one of those times when he wakes up and feels the itch.

 

He sneaks a glance at his dad, who is sleeping, mouth wide open with Godzilla still tearing crap up on the screen. He reluctantly got up, edging his way around the coffee table, and tip toed up the stairs.

 

Derek is standing in his room already. Of course.

 

Whether he wants to admit it or not, Stiles is (slightly more than) annoyed. If he'd admitted Derek to the hospital because of a potentially life threatening incident, then _he_ would have stuck around. Checked out the snack machines. Flirted with the older nurses. Anything. He wouldn't have hauled ass.

 

“What?” Derek asks, looking up from where he was thumbing at a textbook.

 

“Nothing,” Stiles shrugs, walking over to finally pick up his phone. He frowns at it, but the ants are starting to come marching in, so he turns it on. Seven missed messages, five from Scott, one from Isaac, and one more from Lexi. Stiles would open the ones from Scott, just to stall, but Derek's gaze is like a laser.

 

He has a sinking feeling that he knows exactly what will be in Lexi's message. When it's confirmed, he scowls.

 

Of. Fucking. Course.

 

“What is is?” Derek's voice is totally wary, like Stiles is holding a wolfsbane filled grenade instead of a cellphone.

 

“Well,” Stiles says with false cheer, “Looks like we've got to get our mack on.”

 

“Excuse me?” Derek's eyebrows come together like two caterpillars trying to kiss. (Stiles may be slightly loopy from his naps.)

 

“You heard me. We've got to snog. Do some good old fashioned mouth to mouth. Smooch. Neck. Pucker up. French--”

 

“I think I've got it,” Derek says, holding up a hand. He was coming closer, a sort of resigned expression on his face.

 

“It's not like it's got to be awkward,” Stiles says, even as his rebellious blood rushes to his face. He's never wished harder that he was a vampire. Wait, did vampires even blush? Had Derek ever met a vampire? Did they even exist? If werewolves existed then it stood to reason that vampires did too--

 

“Your heart is racing,” Derek observes without inflection. He's somehow made it so they were standing toe to toe.

 

“Yeah, well,” Stiles glares at him. “Whatever. Let's just get this over with.” And before Derek can move, he decides to take initiative.

 

He and Derek are about the same height, Derek just an inch taller than him. It isn't the hardest thing to do, rocking forward and pressing his lips to Sourwolf's.

 

The first time is off. Their noses bump, and instead of the lip that he's going for, Stiles is nervous so he gets more stubble than anything else. But then Derek's hands come up, surprisingly gentle, and directs Stiles to the right place. Cross eyed from the closeness, Stiles squeezes his eyes shut.

 

They stand there with their lips pressed together for about fifteen seconds before they part, the bare whisper of a 'smack' in the air. It makes Stiles cheeks flush even more.

 

Derek says what they're both thinking, hand dropping as he steps back a little. “That was terrible.”

 

“This whole situation is terrible,” Stiles says. “Should we--”

 

Derek rolls his eyes, but reaches forward again.

 

Stiles keeps his arms at his sides, awkward and obvious about feeling awkward. They kiss four more times, each of them these weird third grader kisses that _still_ have Stiles blushing, goddamn it. But the ants have faded, and there's no more urge. Derek brings his hands down from Stiles shoulders, looking down.

 

“So,” Stiles clears his throat, prepared to dissipate the awkward with a snarky joke that's bound to make the werewolf furious.

 

“Erica and Boyd are back,” Derek says. “They showed up yesterday with—” he hesitates, expression closing over. “Never mind. I'll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Derek--”

 

The man was already out the window. Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dickhead.”

 

It is _so_ like him to explain everything and nothing at all. Stiles sighs, rolls his eyes, and goes back downstairs.

 

 

 

 

 

Scott fills him in at the next day. He comes over, using the doorbell and everything. Stiles is so proud.

 

“Dude,” Scott says, “Derek's _sister_ is in town.” Then he stops, nose scrunching up. “Oh my god. What are you _wearing_?”

 

Stiles studiously does _not_ look down at the deep gray oversized Henley and black jeans that he currently has on his person. Derek's precious jacket is draped over his desk chair, where the rest of the clothes had showed up after he got out of the shower to find that all of his clothes (even the dirty ones) had disappeared. For a moment, he'd been sorely tempted to just go and borrow some of his dad's, but that would have been weird to explain.

 

“That's not important right now,” he says.

 

“Uh, yeah it is.” Scott says. Then he catches the look Stiles' face. “Or not. Totally not.” 

 

“What were you saying about Derek's sister?”

 

“She showed up with Erica and Boyd. Her name's Cora. She's our age. Seems okay, if a little sarcastic.” Scott bounces on his toes a little. “They're like—it's weird, Stiles. They're not saying anything about where they came from and Derek's kind of tip toeing around them. Isaac's still at the loft,” he adds. “You never answered my texts. Are you all right?”

 

“No little coconut shavings are gonna get _Stiles Stilinski_ down.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Totally,” Stiles says. He was in an unusually cheerful mood upon discovering that today's little 'assignment' didn't involve actual contact with Derek. They could put off the weirdness. For now.

 

Stiles claps him on the back. “Now: we're going to playing some video games and eat some junk food and you can tell me more about the betas and Derek’s sister.”

 

 

 

 

 

They get to meet her, the next day. They didn't go over to the loft the day that Stiles had gotten a text saying **6\. Wearing each other's clothes.** (Stiles had been sorely, sorely tempted, especially after the Miguel incident—and Erica and Boyd. But he decided against it. They needed space, especially after that shit show that was Friday. Plus, you know: guy time.)

 

But when he gets the seventh text, it was inevitable. So he forwards the message to Derek

slides out of bed, nudging Scott awake (the guy is practically halfway off the mattress). They get dressed and head to the loft.

 

The first thing they hear when they hit Derek’s floor is arguing. Scott and Stiles exchange a look, startled, and start forward.

 

Derek and an unfamiliar girl are snapping at each other. She was tall and thin, with dark hair a shade lighter than Sourwolf’s but eyes that were a familiar hazel-green color. Must be Cora. Isaac’s sitting on the couch, watching the argument with his shoulders hunched up. There’s no sign of Erica or Boyd.

 

“This discussion is not over,” Derek raises his voice, edging on alpha. In response, Cora’s eyes flash bright red. Which is like—huge. Like, holy crap. It’s almost enough to make him forget that he kissed Derek. (Almost.)

 

“You can’t tell me what to do!” she shouts, just as loud as her brother. “I’m not five anymore, Derek! I’ve been on my own all these years--”

 

“Yeah, what’s the deal with that?” Stiles mutters to Scott. Apparently he wasn’t quiet enough though, because Cora whirls on him.

 

“That’s none of your business,” she snaps, looking ready to stomp over to him with her claws out.

 

“Woah. Okay. Yeah, um, no, it’s really not. Just curious.”

  
She sends him a scathing look, her pretty face turned into a fierce scowl—must be a Hale thing—and storms past them to the elevator. The harsh sound of her descent makes them all wince, even Derek.

 

“I’m so glad that you’ve reconnected with your family…?” Stiles lets it turn into a question.

 

Derek barks a laugh, just once. He looks ready to run in front of a semi or something. 

 

Well, they can’t have that. “Anyway,” he says, “Did you get my text?”

 

“I told him his phone went off, but they were too busy yelling at each other to bother.” Isaac shrugs. He pulls his legs up, knees going to his chest and long arms wrapping around them. Derek looks at him sharply, then walks over and flops down onto the couch, close enough that their sides touch. Isaac’s grip on his hands eases a little.

 

“Well,” Stiles drawls, “Today’s text message is—wait for it: Cosplay!” He can’t help the grin that stretches across his face.

 

“You look way too excited about this,” Derek says.

 

“Because I’m a geek, and this is what geeks do! I don’t know where she expects us to wear the costumes, but we could take pictures! We could go out anyway, scare the civilians—I have some friends who are really, really good with makeup!“ he’s prepared to beg. This sounds like it could be cool and he’s never cosplayed before. But now it’s something that’s required. He totally has an excuse.

 

“Okay,” Derek says.

 

Stiles blinks. Scott blinks. Isaac blinks. They are one, blinking family. “Okay?” Stiles echoes.

 

“Let’s get out of here.” Derek stands, grabbing Isaac by the arm and pulling him up with him. He grabs his keys and they head out.

 

“But what about Erica and—“

 

“Let’s go, Stiles.” Derek’s expression is dark.

 

“’Let’s go, Stiles,’” Stiles mocks under his breath before following him.

 

Looks like nothing’s changed. Try as he might, Stiles can’t bring himself to be completely relieved.

 

 

 

 

 

They find a Party City store at the mall. It’s getting closer to Halloween season, so it’s easier than it should be to find a Mario and Luigi costume for Stiles and Scott. Rolling his eyes the entire time, Isaac reluctantly buys a Toad hat and calls it done. It will be so _perfect_ is Derek went as Donkey Kong, but the wolf looks at Stiles like he’s certifiable.

 

“No.”

 

“But dude—“ Scott starts.

 

“ _Hell_ no.”

 

Stiles opens his mouth for an intelligent rebuttal, but something catches his eye. His mouth immediately shifts into a brilliant smile. “I’ve _got it._ ”

 

And so Stiles, Scott, and Isaac are video game characters and Derek is Maverick from Top Gun. They have to buy this huge size just to get Derek’s shoulders into the jacket, but the end result is totally awesome.

 

They take pictures at the park, getting the most hilarious looks. Derek scowls in _every single one,_ which is even funnier.

 

“I could have made you dress like Jacob from _Twilight,_ post- _New Moon_.”

 

Derek’s face contorts into something that he just _has_ to take a picture of.

 

 

 

 

 

 **8\. Shopping and 9. Hanging out with friends** are knocked out of the park. Derek doesn’t talk about Cora, Erica, and Boyd. Heck, _no one_ talks about Cora, Ercia, and Boyd. Stiles knows they’re not at the loft any more, but so much as bringing it up is like saying ‘Voldemort’ during the Second War. So he has no idea. He’d kind of been hoping that since Cora looked like a teenager, she’d be going to school with them, but no dice.

 

“Isaac’s been going to see them,” Scott tells Stiles quietly, during study hall. “He says they’re okay. A little mussed up, but okay.”

 

He’s going to look into it, he is, but right now he’s totally got bigger problems.

 

It was a miracle that he didn’t scream when he looked in the mirror this morning. It had lodged itself in his throat, stuck with the knowledge that his dad would probably burst in if he let it out.

 

But there are _ears._ Not his regular ones—those are still on the sides of his head where they’re supposed to be, thank god—but the ones that are currently poking out of the top of his messy bed hair. They’re as twitchy as the rest of him, perked up now that he’s curious (they’d been flat against his head when he’d jumped away from the mirror).

 

They look like they belong to a fox, if he’s not mistaken. Orangish-red on the outside, with black tips and white on the inside. He doesn’t have a tail, which is a small miracle. When he ran a finger on the edge, it made a shiver go down his entire body.

 

Instead of poking at them for the next hour like he wants to, he picks up the phone and calls Derek.

 

This has become a routine of sorts. Calling Derek. Texting Derek. It’s weird, after an entire summer of generally snarking at each other when the man was in the loft and Stiles was hanging out.

 

“What _now,_ ” Derek groans as soon as he picks up the phone, voice sleep rough. Stiles has to stop for a

 

“Check the top of your head.”

 

Derek groans again, this time more whiny. It’s so uncharacteristic that Stiles snorts.

 

There’s fumbling, probably as Derek goes to find a mirror. Then: “Wolf ears? Seriously?” 

 

“Damn. I was hoping you’d get bunny ears.”

 

Derek groans again. “I can’t go to work like this.”  
  
He’s got a part-time job at the local auto shop. (There was an open position after Jackson paralyzed that mechanic and crushed him under a car.) According to Isaac, Derek’s loaded, but needs something to do with his time.

 

“Just call in sick,” Stiles suggests. “Or wear a hat and call it done. I’m probably gonna have to skip school.” He could see it now: some teacher telling him that there were _no hats allowed_ and plucking it off his head, revealing him to the world. No thanks.

 

“Have you gotten any farther with your research?”

 

Stiles has tried everything. He’s Googled, Binged, and whatever’d on a bunch of different computers, but that same message always pops up. He’s asked Scott and Isaac to do the research for him. Not thirty seconds later, though, they come back with no memory of what he asked them to do. He even asked Lydia.

 

“It sounds familiar,” she’d said thoughtfully, “But I just can’t remember.” She’d looked frustrated at the idea of it. Not remembering.

 

He’d even asked Deaton for advice.

  
“I would advise you to just let it pass,” Deaton said, unhelpful as ever. “Once a Trickster is sure that you’ve learned your lesson, or is finished with their revenge, they usually let their victims free. And yours seems to be unusually humane.”  
  
“What do you mean by that?” Stiles had asked, though he knew the answer. He at least could do some research on Tricksters. Wikipedia and lore’d had a lot to offer.

 

“Most tricks can be deadly.” Deaton replied. “If I were you, I would just finish out my sentence.” He looked at Stiles meaningfully. “And consider my lesson learned.”

 

Easy to say. _He_ didn’t have the memory of Derek Hale’s stubble scratching his cheek, a broad hand under his chin to tilt his lips up.

  
Freaking _tricksters._

Stiles waves his dad off, assuring him that _of course_ he’ll have a good day at school. Then he changes out of his school clothes, crawls back under the bed sheets, and goes back to sleep.

 

He sleeps for about an hour more before a text notification from Scott wakes him up. He texts back, telling him he’s fine, he just won’t be at school today, and stumbles downstairs.

 

Shopping with Derek had been an…odd experience. They’d both had their own carts and just went down the aisles together, bickering about whether or not curly fries were in the ‘junk’ section of the food chain.

 

“Multigrain bread?” Derek had looked offended.

 

“I plan on keeping my father around for a _very_ long time,” Stiles told him cheerfully, dropping it into the cart next to the almond milk. To his surprise, half of Derek’s cart was filled with snack foods. He’d been in the guy’s fridge before, but he’d figured that Isaac did the shopping. It did make sense, though. Wolves burned a lot of calories.

 

Now, Stiles makes a bagel and heats up a mug of coffee. His dad’s left the paper sitting on the table. Stiles takes the cartoon section out and pointedly ignores the ears that twitch on his head every time he laughs.

 

The next day isn’t better. His dad got a call from the school about Stiles’ absence and was pissed.

 

“Is this because of Hale? Are you sneaking off to see him or something?”

 

“No,” Stiles had said a little too forcefully, tugging the baseball hat that he was wearing further down. It pressed down on the ears uncomfortably, but there wasn’t much that he could do about that. “It’s not. We’re not.”

 

The Sheriff frowned even more, but said nothing more. Instead, he started on a story about the great caffeine panic down at the station after the coffee machine broke down. Stiles laughed despite himself and went to bed feeling a little better.

 

That feeling completely evaporates when he wakes up wearing this huge—onesie—animal— _thing._ It’s admittedly soft, but huge and orange and white, black fabric bunching around his ankles and wrists. He shuffles to the mirror, glaring at the hood in the shape of a fox that sits on top of his head.

 

The text simply reads **11\. Wearing kigurumi’s.**

A quick search confirms that there are no zippers or buttons on the thing. Stiles childishly pulls out a pair of scissors and tries to cut the suit to shreds, but even with his sharpest pair that fabric refuses to rip. He sat on the edge of the bed, pouting for an admittedly shameful amount of time, before he decides to suck it up and go downstairs.

 

His dad is eating a bowl of cereal on the couch. When he sees him, the spoon plops into the bowl, splashing milk onto his shirt.

 

“Stiles—“

 

“Lost a bet to Scott,” Stiles lies.

 

John looks at him like he’s crazy. “Must’ve been one hell of a bet.”

 

The only consolation that Stiles has for the rest of the day is that Derek is probably going through the same thing. In fact, it’s confirmed when he goes over to the loft. Derek threatens to break his cellphone in half if he tries to take pictures, but it’s _so_ worth it to see him in a full body wolf suit.

 

 

 

 

 

When it rains, it pours apparently.

On Friday, **12\. Making Out** looms over Stiles’ head like a death sentence. The ants are non-existent at first, which makes it easy for Stiles to go through his classes while firing off sarcastic replies for the morons who are still giving him flack about his ‘outfit’ yesterday.

 

“Must be some trickster,” Lydia had said, eyebrow way, _way_ up. She doesn’t know the half of it.  
  
He gets through Calc and English by fidgeting whenever the ants pop up. They come and go, fading slow sometimes and fast others. Scott shoots him worried looks that he ignores. (He also ignores his phone, which is in his pocket and

 

It’s not until the class after lunch that it really hits.

 

By pure coincidence, it’s the only class that he shares with no one in their little group but Allison. ‘

 

One moment, the ants are crawling all over Stiles’ body as he struggles to focus on their teacher’s drawling voice. The next, he’s shivering all over as cold starts to creep into his bones.

 

His shivering draws the teacher’s attention. Her voice is sharp at first, but when she realizes that he isn’t faking she urgently asks someone to take him to the nurse’s office.

 

“I’ve got it, Mrs. Liel.” Allison’s voice sounds very far away. And then a slim arm is sliding under his, hauling him out of the seat, and they’re staggering into the hallway.

 

“Derek,” he manages, vision blurring and body trembling. “Derek, bathroom, Derek—“

 

“Okay,” Allison says, voice calm. “Derek, then.”

 

They stagger to what looks like the girl’s bathroom, which seems empty. Stronger than she looks, Allison manages to haul him to the wall and let him slide down so he can lean against it. Her fingers dig into his pocket, thin and swift, and his phone is out.

 

He must have passed out, because the next thing he knows is familiar hands cupping his chin, a rasp of stubble against his cheek, and then lips on his.

 

It feels like falling. Like he can feel the world spinning around him, tectonic plates shifting back and forth and nothing is keeping him grounded but Derek’s mouth on his. His lips part in a gasp because he can’t take, can’t take the frost sliding out of his bones to welcome a new summer, but then it gets better because Derek’s tongue meets his and oh.

 

_Oh._

They kiss for seconds. They kiss for days. They kiss until Stiles is trembling for an entirely different reason, his hands in Derek’s ridiculous hair and his eyes squeezed shut. When they finally part with a wet sound, he makes an embarrassing noise low in his throat.

 

“…I think that does it,” Derek says, his normally cool voice sounding surprisingly rough.

 

Stiles opens his eyes, letting reality come back to him. He licks his lips, seeing those hazel-green eyes drop to his undoubtedly red mouth. Which—that’s kind of awesome. “Yep.”

 

“Are you okay, Stiles?” Allison sounds half guarded, half concerned.

 

Well, if Stiles caught _her_ making out with the sourest wolf in the land, he’d sound like that. He meets her eyes over Derek’s shoulder and grins, throwing a thumb up. “Super.”

 

“…If you’re sure.” Her eyes flicker from Derek to Stiles.

 

“You can go back to class,” Derek says with more kindness than Stiles thought he would.

 

She looks at Stiles. Stiles brings his other thumb up, just to be cheeky, and she nods. “Okay. I’ll see you later?” She starts to head for the door.

 

“Yeah. And Allison?” Stiles waits until she’s looking at him. Smiles. “Thank you.” 

 

She smiles at him, slightly shy, and leaves Derek and Stiles alone.

 

“I was waiting in the parking lot.” Derek informs him, frowning. “I texted you.”

 

“It was my fault.” Stiles feels stupid now, for dreading it. That was perfectly fine. Sure, he probably has stubble burn that he’ll have to explain away, and his stomach clenches oddly every time he looks at Derek’s lips, eyes, or hands, but. He’ll deal. He always has.

 

“Just don’t do that again.”

 

“Trust me,” Stiles laughs, a little bitter. “I won’t.”

 

Derek pauses, then goes from crouching in front of him to leaning against the wall next to him. His knees come up in front of him, arms resting on them calmly.

 

“I’m sorry you’re going through this.” He says quietly.

 

“It’s my own fault,” Stiles gives a half-hearted shrug. “And I’m not the only one in this. It’s not so bad though. I mean, I got to see you with a giant baggy wolf suit on.”

 

Derek looks like he’s about to say something else, but a freshman girl comes into the bathroom, sees them, and promptly tries to shatter the mirrors with her scream. 

 

 

 

 

 

 **13\. Eating ice cream** seems hilariously tame. But Stiles takes what he can get and sits with Derek in his living room, eating bowls of Moose Tracks. The werewolf hangs around after, watching Stiles straighten up the kitchen and making unhelpful commentary. It’s fun and easy and after a while Derek even gets up to help him dry the dishes.

 

“So where’s Erica and Boyd?”

 

Derek nearly drops the plate in his hand, he’s so startled.

 

“I mean,” Stiles continues, pretending he didn’t see the slip. “I know we weren’t that close, but I’m pretty sure I’ve given Boyd, like, five hundred dollars in the last four years. And Erica’s my catwoman. Even if she did hit me over the head with a piece of my own car. Which, by the way, was not cool.”

 

“I don’t know why you’re using that accusing tone with me, since I didn’t tell her to do that.” Derek’s tone is even.

 

“You’re her bossy bones alpha.” Stiles shrugs. “I just figured that--”

 

“I _was_ her bossy bones alpha,” Derek interrupts, stopping his movements with the drying clothes completely.

 

 “Cora?” Stiles asks, suspicions confirmed. He’s surprised at this weird ‘sharing and caring’ mood that Derek’s in, but he’s not going to jinx it.

 

“Cora.” Derek grunts. He adds the plate to a growing pile on the counter. “She found them. Rescued them from—something. She’s their alpha now. Just drop it, Stiles.”

 

So Stiles drops it. For now.

 

"Full moon tonight," he says instead, prompting Derek into a bitch-fest about Scott and how much he likes to tackle people when he's wolfed out.

 

 

 

He doesn’t even want to _think_ about day **14\. Genderswapped.** Just, no. (Though Derek did make a pretty hot biker chick. Just saying.)

 

 **15\. Different clothing styles** comes with him in a sweater vest, suspenders, and coca cola bottle glasses that he somehow actually needs. He would give his left nut to see what Derek is forced to wear, but according to Isaac he locked himself in the bathroom.

 

Coward.

 

The next day, Stiles has an opportunity to say this to the wolf’s face.

 

Stiles wakes up to a sting on his butt. Squawking with dismay, he flails, managing to hit something with his arm. Something that feels like _skin._

 

“For god’s sake, Stiles,” Derek snaps, holding his nose. He pulls away, checking his fingers for blood. 

 

“You smacked me on the butt!” Stiles points an accusing finger.

 

“I was returning the favor,” he grumbles, getting out of bed. At least they aren’t handcuffed together. Yet.

 

Stiles phone trills with the usual text. Muttering to himself, Derek walks over and gets it while Stiles lays back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

 

“ **16\. Morning rituals.** ” Derek says.

 

“Seriously?” Stiles whines, wrinkling his nose. “Where does she even get this stuff?”

 

“Hell if I know,” Derek replies. He’s wearing those Hanes pajamas again, one of the end cuffs pulled up to his knee from where he must have shifted in his sleep. That, paired with the frumpy bedhead, isn’t adorable _at all._ “But you heard her. I call first shower.”

 

“The hell you do!” Stiles sits up, but the door is already clicking shut behind Derek. Stiles glares at it for a minute, then gets up to turn off his alarm, which has belatedly started to ring.

 

Derek finds clothes waiting for him on the counter. He dresses while Stiles hops into the shower (trying _really hard_ not to think about the fact that a naked Derek friggin’ Hale was in there not thirty seconds ago). Stiles finds a spare toothbrush and they brush their teeth, sharing deodorant and hair gel.

 

Then Derek sneaks out the window and it’s business as usual from there.

 

Saturday is rainy and horrible. One minute it’s typical California sun: the next rain’s falling down in buckets, the sky churning like an angry belly.

 

 **17\. Spooning** is texted to Stiles phone, and he and Derek argues for ten minutes about who was going to brave the weather to get their cuddle on. Finally, Derek points out that all of those times he’s woken up at Stiles’ house he’s had to run home. So Stiles heaves a sigh and grabs his keys.

 

Going to the auto shop isn’t exactly a pleasant experience. The last time he was there, a guy died in front of him. And it had been gory. And horrible. Stiles had planned on going to the funeral, he really did, but when the day came, he’d put on a suit, got in his Jeep, and sat there, in the driveway, for hours.

 

Not his best day.

 

But now he’s cool as he darts out of the rain into the waiting room of the auto place. _Chill._

 

The receptionist, Judy, is the same as ever. About middle aged with a bad red dye job, she’s chewing on what looks like a huge piece of gum. She’d taken the mechanic’s death as nonchalantly as she took everything else.

 

“You,” she greets. 

 

“Me,” Stiles quirks a grin at her, despite the fact that his stomach is kind of rolling.

 

“Tune up?” Her flip flopped feet slide off the desk onto the floor. Who even wears flip flops in this weather? Judy, that’s who. “Oil change? The old engine sounding funny?”

 

“Actually, I’m here to see—“

 

“Me,” Derek’s voice interrupts. Stiles looks up to see him standing in the doorway of what appears to lead out to the actual garage. He’s wearing a dark pair of coveralls (that do nothing to diminish the sheer attractiveness of the guy, Stiles notices. For purely scientific purposes, of course.) There’s a smudge of grease on his cheek, just above the stubble that he’s been growing out.

 

In an instant, Judy’s back straightens from its slouch. An unholy gleam is in her eyes, even as she turns around to face the werewolf leaning forward to expose even more cleavage to the world. Stiles can see the edges of Derek’s smile straining.

 

“ _Hello,_ baby doll,” she drawls, all seductively and batting eyelashes. “I didn’t know you were having a friend over today.”

 

This is _priceless._ If Scott were here they’d be guffawing, leaning on each other for support. As it is, Stiles’ stomach is contracting with the effort not to bust out laughing.

  
“Actually,” Derek says, perfectly straight-faced, “This is my boyfriend, Stiles.”

 

Judy and Stiles gape.

 

Derek smiles sweetly. There’s more charm than should be allowed, really.

 

“Come on, Stiles,” he says, stepping to the side and gesturing. He’s totally ignoring Judy, who still looks  “My break’s only fifteen minutes, but I’m sure we’ll find _plenty_ to do.”

 

“You are such as asshole,” Stiles grumbles, “And just for that, _I’m_ the big spoon.”

 

Derek throw his head back and laughs, the sound booming through the garage.

 

They have to squeeze onto a dusty, cushy couch that smells like motor oil in a small, cramped break room, but Stiles has to admit that it’s fun. (Even if Derek does end up rebelling halfway through and turns around, efficiently becoming the big spoon.  Asshole.)

 

 

 

 

 

“I want Derek at dinner tonight,” Stiles’ dad says casually the next day at breakfast.

 

Stiles stills. Swallows the milk and cereal in his mouth. He didn’t chew a lot, so it hurts going down, but he barely even registers that.

 

“Okay,” he says stupidly.

 

“Okay,” the Sheriff says, turning his newspaper. “Would you look at that, Stiles? Someone’s opened a new bakery down the street from the station…”

 

 **18\. Doing something together** is apparently going to be family dinner. Stiles is _peeing_ with joy.

 

But to his surprise, it doesn’t go as badly as it could. Ignoring the fact that Derek 1) is a werewolf, 2) was previously arrested for murder by Stiles’ dad (because of Stiles) and 3) is an unknown number of years older than Stiles, it goes pretty well. Stiles makes turkey hamburgers, which prompts a long session of bitching from the Sheriff and Derek agreeing with him.

 

“It’s sacrilege,” the Sheriff says.

 

“It’s _being healthy_.” Stiles shoots back. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that you came in here with that banana cream pie stain on your collar.”

 

“I don’t know, Stiles,” Derek says. “I think a guy deserves a pie every now and then. Which is why I brought some—it’s in the car if you want it.”  
  
Stiles glowers at both of them, one who looks unwillingly pleased and the other who’s trying to look innocent.

 

They eat apple pie in the living room and watch the game, playfully arguing over their favorite teams. Stiles’ dad doesn’t pull his gun once.

 

His _life._

 

 

 

 

 

 **19\. In formal wear** requires Stiles to put on his prom uniform and look like a tit by lounging around the house in it.

 

When **20\. Dancing** comes up, Stiles gets an idea. A possibly awful, possibly successful idea. And once it gets in his head, he can’t seem to get rid of it.

 

So he pitches it to Isaac.

 

“Are you _nuts?_ ”

 

“Possibly,” Stiles says cheerfully. “No one can really decide if it’s genius or insanity.”

 

“Insanity,” Lydia says where she’s working on an equation. She has a purple gel pen in her hand, her white napkin quickly bring overtaken by ink. “But I’m intrigued. Continue, Stilinski.”

 

“It’ll be fun,” Stiles tells Isaac, his knee bouncing under the table. “Just think about it! Me, you, Lydia, Erica and Boyd, Allison and Scott, wherever they may be right now—“

 

“Hold on,” Lydia says, looking up. “Who even says I’m going to be there?”

 

“Don’t pretend that you want to miss out on the drama.” Stiles rolls his eyes.

 

Lydia pauses. Then: “True. What time will this thing start?”

 

“It’s not going to start at all,” Isaac protests, hissing and looking around like Lady Hale is about to jump out of a corner. “I’m not taking you to Cora’s place. She’ll skin me alive!”

 

“And you will have died for a noble cause.” Stiles pats him on the arm. “Think about it. Aren’t you sick of Derek being Mr. Mopey-Mc-Mopeyson?”

 

“I think that has more to do with the fact that he has to cuddle with you all the time.”

 

Ouch. Okay, that one actually kind of stung.

 

Isaac sees his expression and his eyes widen. “I didn’t mean it like that! I’m sure that he’d want to if e weren’t being, you know, forced—“

 

“Just stop talking,” Lydia orders. Isaac shuts up as she turns to Stiles.

  
“What wolfboy here is trying to say is, he’ll be happy to take you to Cora’s house after school.”

 

“Totally,” Isaac agrees, nodding. Stiles suspects that he’s still got a tiny crush on Lydia. Oddly enough, he’s not jealous.

 

“Besides,” Lydia says, starting on her equation again, “From what I hear, you don’t have anything to worry about. Allison says you two were making out like the way to Hogwarts was in Derek’s throat.”

 

Stiles chokes on his own spit.

 

 

 

The drive is about an hour long. Scott, who insists on tagging along, changes the radio station every five seconds, a huge grin on his face. They listen to ‘Unconditionally’ before Stiles snaps, turns to a hard rock station and forces them to listen to it until they pull up to Cora’s place.

 

Stiles doesn’t know what he expected. Maybe a run-down train station, or another burned out husk like the Hale House. But they’re in the suburbs in front of a yellow house. There’s someone washing their truck next door. Kids are squealing in the streets, playing with skateboards while their moms watch anxiously.

 

“Um,” Stiles says. 

 

“I know,” Isaac says. “I said the same thing.”

 

They get out of the Jeep, eventually. The door swings open just as they’re stepping onto the porch.

 

"Stiles?" 

 

Erica looks the same, but different. She's somewhere between that girl who had epilepsy and just wanted to be beautiful, and that wolf who was beautiful and made sure that the world knew it now. She's cut her hair, so it's only shoulderlength with natural waves. She's not wearing makeup and she's in a pair of bootcut jeans and a slightly oversized band tee. Boyd steps into view, too, and they all stare idiotically until Scott shuffles his feet behind him. 

 

"Uh," Stiles rubs the back of his neck. "Hi. Can we talk about something?" 

 

 

 

 

Allison bows out, which Stiles realizes is a good thing after he sees all of the wolves that are standing in his living room. Lydia is the only other human, sitting in his father's chair with her legs crossed daintily. Erica is standing over near the pictures on the wall, examining photos of baby Stiles and his parents with an odd fascination. 

 

"This is a bad idea," Derek mutters behind Stiles as he hooks the Xbox up again. Stiles, halfway behind the entertainment center with a bunch of cords in his hands, grunts. "Hush. It's an awesome idea and you're jealous that you didn't think of it yourself." 

 

"Stiles." Derek sounds pained and kind of anxious. Before they had to do stuff like spoon and eat ice cream and watch Marvel movies together, Stiles would have called that tone 'grumpy'. But no! Now he has knwledge of all fifty shades of Hale. 

 

"This is gonna be good." Stiles promises, barely managing to contain his shout as he finally connects the right cord to his TV. "Awesome," he says happily, pulling out. His butt nudges Derek's crotch, since the wolf's been standing so close to him. He straightens up with a red face. 

 

Derek coughs. "Sorry." 

 

Stiles flaps a hand. "Just help me come and get the snacks." 

 

"I'll help!" Scott perks up from where he's been hunkered down with Isaac. Boyd's on the other side of Isaac, but they're not talking. At least they're not fighting though? Progress. 

 

"Sit down," Stiles orders, knowing that his best friend will just eat half the bag before they even make it to the bowls. 

 

Cora is sitting at the foot of the stairs, fiddling with her phone. When they pass, she gives Stiles an unreadable look. It almost seems confused. 

 

That's okay, because Stiles has no idea what to make of her either. When they first got to the house (after some admittedly long hugs with Erica and Boyd) she'd been all fire, demanding to know what they were doing there. And yet, when he'd asked if they wanted to come over, she had said yes. The complete opposite of what he thought would happen. 

 

She seems to have settled on Derek, which gets her these heartbreaking half angry, half puppy dogish looks from her brother. Stiles is determined to fix it, at least a little. If his family burned in a huge fire and a long lost family member turned up but was an asshole, he'd take the time to figure out just  _why_ they were being assholish. And when he's talking about family members, he's talking about Cora. Not Peter. Obviously, he knows why Peter's such an asshole--

 

"Have I ever told you that your life is like a soap opera?" he asks randomly. 

 

"Says the one who pissed off a trickster." Derek retorts. 

 

"Touche, dude. Touche." 

 

"Don't call me dude." 

 

They play 'Just Dance 4', pushing all of the chairs and the coffee table out of the way so they can battle it out in the living room. Derek swinging his hips in an attempt to get 'PERFECT' after 'PERFECT' has Stiles in hysterics until the wolf stomps off the floor, slings him onto his shoulder and refuses to put him down until he stops laughing. All the blood rushing to Stiles' head just makes it even  _funnier_ until Derek's laughing too. 

 

At the end of the night, when they're saying goodbyes, Erica gives Stiles a look. He's not paying attention at first: a couple meters away Cora and Derek are standing near each other, speaking in what looks like a halting conversation. Boyd and Isaac are roughhousing on the lawn, Scott looking like he wants to join in at any moment. Lydia left early, claiming a headache from beating the crap out of them during 'Crucified'. 

 

"He seems happier," Erica says abruptly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. 

 

"Huh?" Stiles focuses on her. 

 

"Derek. He seems happier. More...relaxed." 

 

"Sourwolf? Relaxed?" Stiles laughs a little. When Erica only smiles a little, Stiles lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "I guess? I don't know. This whole 'trickster' thing...it's been kind of rough." 

 

"Sure it has," Erica says. Before Stiles can decide if she's being sarcastic or not, she pulls him into a strong hug. "Don't be a stranger, Stilinski," she says in a mock-threatening voice. 

 

"Won't," Stiles squeaks. "Promise." 

 

Before they leave, Cora smacks Stiles on the ass, squeezing a little with a smirk. "See you around, jailbait." 

 

"You're the same age as me!" Stiles shouts after her retreating back, shaking a fist. He's not afraid of her, not after he watched her shake her hips to 'Beauty and a Beat'. She is  _so_ a Belieber.

 

Scott gives him a weird look. "Stiles, I don't think she meant..." he trails off. "Never mind." 

 

 

 

 **21\. Cooking/baking** is pies and cookies, then going to the store and buying pre-made cookies and pies when they fail miserably. Stiles isn't a chef, okay? 

 

 

****

 

“Duck!”

 

Stiles slams to the ground, asphalt digging into his already-bloody palms as a body goes flying over his head. The succubus lands in the alley dumpster in a loud cacophony of screeching metal and hissing.  He leaps to his feet and runs over, managing to put his machete through her throat with a wet ' _sqelch_ ' before she recovers. It's sharp—hours with a whetstone ensured that--and sinks straight through with a wet ' _squelch'_. Blood spatters all over his face and parts of his shirt.

 

Claws grip the back of his jacket and yank, whirling him around before he's pinned to the alley wall with an elbow tight to his throat.

 

“Well,” he gasps out, his lungs already protesting, “This is kinky.”

 

A drop-dead gorgeous blonde smiles at him, her lipstick bright red in the moonlight. Selena has a trail of blood on her chin, but other than that she looks fabulous in a summer dress and high, high heels. A week ago, Stiles had been sitting behind her in English.

 

“Stiles,” she croons, her voice unnaturally melodious. With her free hand, she pets his cheek, claws running down the side of his face. He doesn't flinch. “I wish you wouldn't fight me. You are so...” she sighs, and the smiles becomes slightly wistful. “Awkward. It's just adorable, really.”

 

“So I'm like a chihuahua puppy?” His throat is slowly closing. Behind them, the sound of screaming and flesh tearing echoes through the alley. They're just lucky that this is a deserted street. “And you're the evil supermodel?”

 

“Not evil,” she breathes, stepping into her space. She smells like strawberries and the sea and, oddly enough, ash. “Just...hungry. You'll help me, won't you Stiles?”

 

And before he can babble his way out of it her lips are pressed to his. She's unrelenting, fitting her curvy body against his, and before he knows it he's in a drugged haze, making out with the very thing that he'd come there to kill. She removes the elbow from his throat and he stumbles forward, drags his hands into her hair. Selena tastes like sunshine and promises and he's floating, warm and happy, before it's brought to a screeching halt.

 

He watches, dazedly, as Selena's head bounces twice on the ashalt, then rolls to a stop. It's really gross and everything, but all Stiles can focus on is not suddenly passing out.

 

“Hey.” Derek turns to him and slaps him gently, his claws sheathed. Stiles looks at him, sluggish from the energy sapped out of him through the kiss.

 

“Triplets,” he says, blinking heavily and chuckling a bit. “Who would've guessed? And they're all named Selene. That's...that's...” he slumps forward, his balance off, but Derek's quick to push him back against the wall, gently forcing him into a sitting position by pressing on his shoulders. Stiles goes willingly, too tired to protest, and he sits on the dirty ground of the alley with his head between his knees while Derek cleans up their mess.

 

The rustle of heavy duty garbage bags being filled and hauled, the sharp smell of bleach, and then the slam of the Camaro's trunk at the end of the alley. Footsteps, noise mostly for Stiles benefit, before black shoes are in Stiles' vision.

 

“Let's go,” Derek says, his voice gruff. He offers a hand to Stiles.

 

The teenager looks at it for a moment before he takes it. He's hauled to his feet in one smooth motion. Derek looks at him, considering, before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out baby wipes.

  
“You've got a little...something.” he gestures vaguely. Stiles wipes his face, then his hands, and shoves the dirty wipes into the pocket of his jeans. 

 

“Thanks.” he says. He grins, suddenly. “Is that the Johnson and Johnson brand? 'Cause it smells like the Johnson and Johnson brand, Sourwolf.” he pictures Derek in the baby aisle and the hilarity of it all increases. Despite his crappy night, he can feel a laugh building up in his throat.

 

Derek rolls his eyes—back to hazel—and Stiles suddenly realizes that they're still holding hands. He lets go quickly, the laugh disappearing.

 

“Well,” he says brightly, before things can get awkward, “I think I'm gonna take a long— _long_ shower, eat junk food, and pass out.”

 

“Teenagers,” Derek looks close to rolling his eyes again. He turns and starts walking.

 

“Hey!” Stiles stumbles after him, still a little uncoordinated but well enough. “I think I've _earned_ it, damn it!” 

 

 **22\. In battle, side by side:** Done. 

 

 

**23\. Arguing** is fun, in that horrible, detrimental way. Stiles says things and Derek says things and there may or may not be a thrown textbook. You know. Just because. 

 

His dad side eyes him for the rest of the day, moving around him like he's a crazy person. 

 

Okay, so Stiles is a little grumpy. And? 

 

But then **24\. Making up** comes and they have to let bygones be bygones, don't they? Especially since Derek brings ice cream and tickets to the new Marvel movie. 

 

"You are the bane of my existence," Stiles says, pulling on a coat. 

 

"I'll meet you in the car," Derek replies, smug. 

 

 

                                                  

 

“This is one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done,” Stiles says as they sit on the loft couch. “And dude, that’s saying something. Once, when I was in the third grade, a kid dared me to stick all of the French fries on my lunch tray up my nose and I _did it_ and I ended up going to the emergency room.”

  
  
“Sometimes,” Derek says, “I feel like you could film and entire Jackass movie with footage of you going throughout a normal day.”

 

  
“That is literally one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.”

  
Derek rolls his eyes and reaches across, grabbing Stiles by the ears and tilting his head up so they have eye contact. “Gazing into each other’s eyes,” he orders. “Get to it. Now.”

 

It’s not as easy as that, because the most they make it is thirty seconds before Stiles cracks up. Derek rolls his eyes every single time Stiles starts to snort.

 

Eventually, Derek turns it into a staring contest, which made it must less ridiculous and more freakishly competitive. Stiles stares until his eyes are watering with the effort of keeping his eyes open. Derek, for all his werewolfness, doesn’t look much better.

 

The loud ‘clang’ of the elevator stopping on Derek’s floor makes Stiles flinch.

 

“God _damnit_!”

**25\. Gazing into each other’s eyes** : Done.

 

 

 

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the bishop says.

 

“Stiles, are you crying?”

 

“I’m not. _I’m not_.”

 

“You are.”

 

“Shuddup, Sourwolf. Don’t pretend that you didn’t tear up a little when they were saying their vows. I saw the baby tear.”

 

“You saw nothing.”

 

“Whatever. Let’s go get some cake, yeah? Who knew it was so easy to sneak into a wedding?”

**26\. Getting married:** Done.  

 

 

**27\. On one of your birthdays** had been an odd one. Stiles has gotten birthday wishes all day, even though he turned eighteen in December, not August. But his dad (who also honestly believes that it’s Stiles’ birthday, like the rest of the population) got him cake and everyone came over and sang, so it was all good. He grins as Derek looks at him enviously. Looks like the trickster has a clear favorite here, and it’s not Sourwolf.

 

 **28\. Doing something ridiculous** nearly results in a broken arm. It _does_ involve Cora and Derek yelling at everybody until their voices are nearly hoarse, so maybe that’s progress? For them?

 

 **29\. Doing something sweet--** Stiles gives a huge, surprisingly expesive bouquet of flowers to Derek. Then takes another picture of the guy's face. Honestly, he just needs to stop sometimes.  

 

 

Stiles is  _ready_ for **30** , okay? These past few days have been a downright breeze. And then Lexi sends it: 

 

**30\. Doing something sexy.**

**  
**Okay. This changes nothing. Stiles rolls his shoulders and calls Derek. They can make out or something and see a movie, or go and visit Cora and the betas. Something that will disappate the inevitable awkwardness. It's not like they have to go all the way, right? Right.

 

Derek raises an eyebrow at the text, then nods. "Okay." 

 

And then he takes off his shirt. 

 

Stiles' mouth goes dry. That--that was  _not_ in the pep talk that he'd given himself. He isn't prepared. He isn't--he's being hauled close by his hips. 

 

Their knees knock together as they're pressed together, hip to hip and chests brushing. 

 

"Okay?" Derek asks blinking. He doesn't look nervous at all, just--hungry. 

 

In answer, Stiles cups his jaw and brings his head down for a kiss. 

 

If this isn't sexy, Stiles thinks with a groan, he doesn't know what is. Tongues sliding together, fingers so tight on his waist that he'll be able to see the evidence, fingernails scrabbling across that ridiculous tattoo--he's not even going to deny it anymore, this is really awesome. 

  
And then Derek places his hands on Stiles' ass and lifts and Stiles goes and there are legs around waists and walls and grinding and okay. 

 

_It just got more awesome._

 

__

 

"You're wearing a scarf," Scott says. 

 

"I am aware of this, yes," Stiles replies primly, looking straight ahead. 

 

"But you swore you'd never wear a scarf if it wasn't below thirty degrees outside," Scott says. "You said that only guys like Jackson Whittemore wear scarves when it's not cold, why on earth are you--" He catches a good whiff of Stiles and recoils.  _"Oh my god!"_ he cries, scandalized. 

 

"Say nothing!" Stiles barks. 

 

" _Oh my god!"_

 

"What?" Isaac pops out of nowhere. 

 

"Isaac!" Scott says frantically. "Whatever you do, don't breathe--!" 

 

_"Oh my god!"_

_  
_"I _tried,_ man--" 

 

"Would you both  _sit down!?"_

 

__

By lunch time, Stiles is jittery, on edge. Scott's noticed, but in a rare moment of wisdom he's left it alone.

It's Isaac who asks the question. "So," he says casually, "What ridiculous stunt is she having you and Derek pull today?" 

Stiles' head hits the lunch table with a 'thunk' that makes everyone stare. "I don't  _know,_ " he groans pitifully. 

"You haven't gotten a text?" Allison asks. 

"Not even a  _winky face,_ " Stiles moans, face still smushed against the table. 

 "But this is great!" Scott says, sounding excited. "It might mean that your sentence is over!" 

There's silence as everyone digests this, coming to their own conclusions. And then a tray is slammed to the table. 

"For god's sake," Danny Mahealani's voice says, "Don't you all see? If the curse is gone then that means Stiles doesn't have an excuse to get his hands all over those rippling werewolf pectorals!" 

There's a very loud silence.

Stiles lifts his head from the table, gazing at Danny. "Would you do me the honor or becoming my spirit animal?" he asks, utterly serious.

 

"I'll think about it." Danny winks and sits down, taking a piece of celery from Isaac's tray. He pauses. "Can I have this?" 

"Of course," Isaac says, staring as Danny freaking  _dimples_ at him and takes a bite. 

"Thank you," he near coos at the blond, smiling. "Now, Stiles: here is what you're going to do." 

*

This is stupid. 

"This is stupid," Stiles mutters to himself as he heads into the house, prepared to make up some kind of 'boxer dropping' speech. He's a  _babbler._ This is  _not_ going to work. Danny assures him that this is just step one in a very long list of steps, so Stiles has decided to follow his advice. For now. 

He doesn't get the chance to even  _formulate_ something though, because of course, Derek's there. Just casually gorgeous, flipping through Oliver Twist on Stiles' bed like he's made to be there. Stiles stops short in his doorway. 

"Oh. Hey." Derek smiles, looking almost...shy as he puts the book down, standing. "You never texted with what we're supposed to do so--" 

"There wasn't--" Stiles swallows. "She didn't send anything. I think...I think it's done, Derek." 

"The...?" 

"Yeah." Stiles stares at the ground, willing,  _hoping_ for a text to come. But his phone doesn't trill, and the floor doesn't swallow him whole. 

Stiles blinks, his vision kind of blurry with tears. He hears Derek shifting around, probably getting ready to jump out the window and never return except for when he needs research or something.

Stiles' phone bleeps. 

He freezes, hardly daring to believe it. It could be Scott or Danny or Isaac or Lydia or anyone really but--he pulls it out with shaky fingers. 

**Message From: TheSourestWolf**

31\. Real first kiss

Stiles looks up, beaming, to see Derek with this hopeful little smile on his face and he just-- 

"Screw the speech," he says, tossing his phone to the side to launch himself at his werewolf. Derek's grinning, which really isn't condusive to a good first kiss at all, but Stiles is too busy laughing to care.

                                                              

  
**  
**He never does see Lexi again. But lounging in Cora's backyard, watching Erica and Boyd have a chicken fight in the pool against Isaac and Scott and seeing his boyfriend try and make civil conversation with Cora while Allison, Lydia, and Danny help his dad out with the food, Stiles has to pull out his cellphone and send one last text.

**To: Lexi**

Thank you. 


End file.
